


Molly House

by ARealPip



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam Young is the best kid ever, Adam is Crowley's Son, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bentley is a very fast and very ornery horse, Coming Out into Gay society the Regency Era, Crowley invented the Hansom Cab Three Decades Early, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a servant and Aziraphale is the heir apparent, Crowley loves Bentley, Divorce, F/M, Gay Life in the Regency Period, Great Houses and Molly Houses, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Highwaymen, Horses and Carriages, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men were hanged for sodomy, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Newgate Gaol, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Original Character Death(s), Original Characters - Freeform, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery from trauma, Regency Sex Clubs, Smuggling, The beginning of the Industrial Age and the rise of the middle class, Upstairs/Downstairs drama, You can't do nine miles per hour in Central London!, the course of true love never did run smooth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 196,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27481195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARealPip/pseuds/ARealPip
Summary: Wealthy gay heir-apparent Aziraphale Fell of Oxfordshire England has a lot of things to worry about. It's 1816, sodomy is a crime punishable by death, and there's a famine throughout Europe. Also, there is a baby. In a basket. And somehow he seems to be responsible for it.
Relationships: Adam Young - Relationship, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 802
Kudos: 250
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Supper, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> Did you want an angsty and historically realistic Good Omens Regency AU with Aziraphale as an insufferable wealthy snob and Crowley as a London criminal? Feel that life would have been better if Jane Austen had been less starry eyed about how the upper class managed to become so wealthy? Wish you knew what went on inside a Regency sex club? This is the story for you.
> 
> Thanks to my betas Raechem and GayDemonicDisaster. This would not have happened without them. Anything I got right about horses is because of them. 
> 
> This is an extensively researched historical fiction that is as realistic to the time period as I could make it. It is dark and angsty and heavy, but shot through with genuine love. It makes people cry. But (hopefully) in a good way. And I put you back together at the end.
> 
> Trigger Warnings:  
> Rape/Non-Con Scene, Divorce, Original Character Death, Death in Childbirth, Heritable Genetic Disease, Mourning, Sexual Exploitation of Employees, Prostitution, Internalized Homophobia, Group Sex, Non-Consensual Non-Monogamy, Fighting About Sex, Offscreen Death of Child, References to Capital Punishment, Imprisonment, Mild Animal Abuse, Coarse Language, Giving up a Wanted Child for Adoption, Poverty, Alcohol Use and Abuse, Illness, Attempted Murder, Classism, Misogyny, Blackmail, Ethically Ambiguous Choices, Blasphemy, House Fire, Abusive Family System

August 1816 (The Year Without A Summer)

The sky of the Oxfordshire countryside was orange. A powerful volcano had thrown ash into the air on the other side of the world and now the weather was wrong in England. The linen curtains had been drawn aside from the great mullioned windows to allow the glow of the sunlight, such as it was, to light the room. The summer sun was four hours from setting and the sky barely cloudy, but the subtle haze that had filled the air for the past year gave the light a rust-orange color. 

Twenty-two year old Aziraphale Fell sat down at the head of a thirty foot table to a quiet supper for one in the dining room of Empyrean Hall, the great house that was the crown jewel of his family's sprawling estate. The strange light reflected off the gilded frames of two tiers of man-sized paintings that graced the long wall of the dining room on the opposite side of the floor to ceiling mullioned windows.

The butler walked softly across the many-colored Turkish carpet that stretched from wall to wall in the dining room. He presented Aziraphale with a beautifully crisp little trout which had spent its morning swimming merrily in the clear waters of the estate's largest pond, blissfully unaware that it was destined to spend its evening swimming in a delicately flavored bechamel sauce. 

Aziraphale clapped his hands lightly together as he beheld the fish, the bed of greens on which it sat, and the steaming tureen of white sauce. The butler spoke:

"Your favourite, sir."

Aziraphale was enjoying a rare opportunity to indulge his own tastes. The great house was virtually empty. His uncle, Gabriel, had taken ill again, and would dine in his rooms. Aziraphale's fractious cousins and aunts were all either visiting with friends at other country estates, or spending the evening in the smaller homes on the grounds. Empyrean Hall itself was near empty and was his to enjoy. 

"Thank you, Mr. Paget," Aziraphale said to the butler, "This looks especially delicious. And please pass on my thanks to Monsieur Bouchard."

Aziraphale picked up his glass of wine. And then he set it down again. He stood up. The tall wooden doors of the dining room were opening, and an all-too-familiar voice hailed him. It was his uncle, the Sixth Earl of Ambrosden and the current owner of Empyrean Hall and the vast Fell estate. 

"Wearing a banyan at this time of day?", said Gabriel Fell. 

Aziraphale looked down and studied the exotic flowers embroidered on his blue silk wrapper. 

"Sir," he said. "I rather thought I'd be eating alone . . ." He looked mournfully at the little trout. It looked back with equal mournfulness. Little tendrils of steam rose from its body and tickled Aziraphale's nose. 

Gabriel leaned on his cane and grimaced with every other step that he took. Two footmen accompanied him. One bore a stool and a stack of cushions, and the other was allowing Gabriel to lean on his arm as he slowly made his way along the thirty foot long table. The long table was necessary because, at a typical dinner, six to eight of Aziraphale’s unmarried female cousins, and his two married cousins (who were married to each other) and two of his aunts dined with Aziraphale and Gabriel. And that was when they didn’t have visitors. 

"I won't stay," said Gabriel. Then he raised a hand into the air. Which indicated precisely the opposite intention to all who were in the room. The servants sprang into action around Gabriel.

The footmen being occupied, respectively, with carrying cushions and with supporting Gabriel's weight, the butler pulled out a chair one spot away from the head of the table. The first footman gently lowered Gabriel into the chair while the second handed over a cushion for Gabriel's back. As the first footman helped Gabriel to settle himself, the second footman fluttered around, replacing the chair that was next to Aziraphale with a low stool for Gabriel's gouty foot. He laid two cushions on top of the stool and then carefully lifted Gabriel's leg onto them as the old man grunted his displeasure. 

Aziraphale sat back down. He fixed his eyes on the middle distance, just past the thin tendrils of steam that were rising off of his rapidly cooling dinner. According to the doctor, bechamel sauce was too rich for Gabriel to eat, and, therefore, by the never-to-be-spoken rules of the Fell family, Aziraphale could not enjoy it while Gabriel was in the room. 

The butler set a small gilded wine glass filled with a pink liquid in front of Gabriel. Upon receiving a glare from his lord, the butler bent to whisper in his ear. 

"Hang the doctor!", cried Gabriel. "Am I still the master in this house or not?"

The butler removed the glass of pink liquid and, a moment later, the first footman set a glass of unwatered wine in front of Gabriel. When Gabriel reached for the gilded goblet, his gout-swollen fingers failed to close around the bowl. The old man grunted and the footman on his right shoulder lifted the cup to his lips for him as the other footman bent over next to Aziraphale to adjust the cushions that supported Gabriel's foot. 

Before the miasma from his uncle's gouty foot could reach his nostrils, Aziraphale thrust his nose over the bowl of his own wine glass and drank deeply. 

Gabriel drained his glass. As the footman bent to wipe at the dribbles of wine on his lips, the butler leaned over and refilled it for him. Gabriel gestured to his first footman, and the glass was held to his lips again. He drank half of it before allowing the footman to set it down in front of him. Then he stared pensively into the gilded glass. An enameled likeness of the family crest was engraved on the outside of the bowl. It seemed to be half-floating in the red liquid. 

At last, he spoke. 

"Terrible day," Gabriel said. "Two more tenants have absconded. Five weeks before Michaelmas and I have 1700 acres unoccupied . . ."

"Ah," said Aziraphale. 

"While you shirk your duties in favor of having a little luncheon like a woman . . ."

"An early supper, actually."

". . . our land is running to thorn and thistle . . ."

"Quite sad about--"

". . . and our tenants seem to think that rent is optional . . ."

"But the wheat and barley have completely failed," said Aziraphale. "The weather--"

"And yet I pay the same taxes, bad weather or no!"

"True, but Christian mercy requires that--"

"And, now, to top it all off, the village seems to think that Empyrean Hall is running an orphanage!"

"An orphanage?"

"There's a baby that has been left at the gatehouse," said Gabriel. He fixed his beady eye on Aziraphale. "In a basket." 

"Ah," said Aziraphale. He had no knowledge of, or interest in, babies. And, if, as he hoped, he could manage to enjoy the rest of his life in his preferred state of eternal bachelorhood, he never would. 

Gabriel kept staring at Aziraphale. The silence stretched on, and Aziraphale realized that he was expected to contribute, and so he said: "A baby?"

And Gabriel nodded and raised an eyebrow. There seemed to be something very specific that he expected Aziraphale to say. 

"Is there . . .", said Aziraphale. "That is to say. I'm not sure I quite understand what a baby has to do with me." 

"You'd better hope it's nothing to do with you," said Gabriel. "The scoundrel who left it said to bring it to your attention."

Aziraphale's eyes widened. 

"I'm currently operating," said Gabriel, "Under the charitable assumption that the reason your name was specifically mentioned is that your reputation for softheartedness had spread through the entire village."

"Ah," said Aziraphale. 

"I expect you to take care of it," said Gabriel. 

"What? Me?" Aziraphale's frantic mind cast about for any information on how one took care of an infant without accidentally killing it. It wasn't the sort of information that could be found in books, and yet his mind went to things he had read, unhelpfully supplying the idea of finding a she-wolf to nurse it. Or a she-human. Woman. With a womanly breast. 

"Yes," said Gabriel. "Ask around in the village."

"What, tonight?!", cried Aziraphale. He pictured himself wandering around the darkening streets scanning women's bosoms for signs of super-ample lactation. "Can't we send Mrs. Potts?" Mrs. Potts was the housekeeper for Empyrean Hall. 

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Planning to spend the evening swanning about at that public ball in Enstone tonight?"

"Well, I did promise Miss Hunt--" Aziraphale winced. "But, well, obviously, an abandoned baby needs to take precedence over, um, frivolity," said Aziraphale. "I'll just, er--"

And then, unaccountably, Gabriel gifted Aziraphale with a smile. His eyes were glinting. He signaled to the footmen, who moved his leg off of the cushions and onto the floor. The old man leaned forward a little bit and brought his teeth together in a strange smile. 

"I know exactly what kind of man you are, Fell," whispered Gabriel. "You haven't fooled me with that angel of mercy act."

Aziraphale's heart froze. And then Gabriel started laughing, as if the two of them were sharing a joke. Aziraphale quickly turned his grimace of terror into a hearty guffaw. 

"Go to the ball," said Gabriel. "Gatekeeper has it all in hand for the evening. His wife has six or eight children. One infant more or less is hardly noticeable for a woman like that."

Aziraphale nodded to cover his confusion, and Gabriel kept on talking.

"I know that I can't expect a hot-blooded young man like yourself to be content to stay home and chase the maids. That's for us old men. And even I can't corner them like I used to do. Why they always come in pairs, I'll never know."

With the help of his two footmen, Gabriel regained his feet. He shook his gout-swollen finger over Aziraphale’s now cold trout.

"Don't repay my generosity by sleeping the day away tomorrow," he said. "I expect you to start your inquiries at dawn. Find out who left it and find someone to take it in permanently."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "I will. Thank you, uncle." He was feeling rather turned about. 

Gabriel's cane thumped on the carpet as he took his first shuffling step away from the table.

"Far be it from me," he said, "To keep the Cad of Empyrean Hall from his legions of female admirers." 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Er. The young ladies await. Mustn't disappoint." 

***

The young ladies did await. But the reason for Aziraphale's pleasure in their company was completely misunderstood by his uncle. 

Aziraphale, now entering his fifth year of balls and banquets, had finally perfected the art of enjoying an evening out. In the beginning, he had been quite nonplussed by the advances of the many aggressively friendly older women who desired for their daughters to share in his expected future income. But he had discovered a way to dispose of these misguided women and their hopeful daughters. Having grown up in a small and crowded home with six older sisters, Aziraphale had developed a sympathetic ear. His listening skills gained him the confidence of these women and their daughters. As he sympathized, he skillfully diverted their matrimonial designs onto more suitable gentlemen. He knew quite a bit about all of the underappreciated men in his social circles because the shyest young men, seeing that Aziraphale regularly had intense conversations with members of the opposite sex, constantly pressed him for advice. 

And so Aziraphale passed his social evenings as a confidant to hopeful young women and awkward young men, seldom dancing, but often walking in gardens or sitting on patios in semi-private conferences. His greatest joy came from the making of an introduction that would end the loneliness of both parties. He had become, by proxy, an expert on love: a connoisseur of compatibility, able to balance temperament, finances, prospects, and physical attraction in matching men and women. And seeing the happiness of others filled a space in Aziraphale's heart that would otherwise be entirely empty. 

Evenings out gave him something to look forward to. Aziraphale had little refuge in the halls and libraries of his own great home, as he was constantly subject to abuse from his many female relatives. In addition to his elderly aunts, there were seven girls, aged thirteen to nineteen, who lived at Empyrean Hall, and they and their tutors had nearly the exclusive use of the drawing room, the music room, the garden room, the long gallery, and the entire west wing. 

Uncle Gabriel’s sister, Lady Katherine Sandalphon, had moved into Empyrean Hall long before Aziraphale had, back when Gabriel’s wife had died. She took over the raising of Gabriel’s three daughters, and she brought her own three daughters and son to live at Empyrean Hall too. She was an unrepentant narcissist and she enjoyed ruling over the education of young people. Her inflexible standards and fearsome temper meant that all of her girls were decorous and obedient and also unusually accomplished in languages, music, dance, and petty cruelty. Her excellent reputation among the gentry ensured that, for each girl that she managed to marry off, another one or two were added to her little finishing school at Empyrean Hall. 

Lady Sandalphon thought that her son was more worthy than Aziraphale to inherit the title and the vast Fell fortune. She treated Aziraphale as if he were a giant insect that had not only invaded her home but had also made so bold as to sit on the furniture. Naturally, all of the girls under Lady Sandalphon’s tutelage completely agreed with her views on Aziraphale, and they competed with one another to find ways to torture him. 

Unfortunately for the females of the Fell family, they could not be rid of Aziraphale. Though Aziraphale's branch of the family tree was nearly estranged from the rest of the Fells, he was a direct male line descendant of the Fifth Earl of Ambrosden, and they needed him. The Fell estate had grown over seven generations because of the strict habit of entailing the property, so that in each generation all of the land and buildings were transferred, in their entirety, to a single male heir in the bloodline. 

Alas: The Fell family, while rich in properties, had suffered, over the last five generations, from an unfortunate lack of male heirs. The problem was that male children born of the Fell line tended to die of fits in early childhood. This would create a gap in the lineage which the family solved in the traditional way: by marrying the daughter of the current patriarch to the inheriting cousin or uncle in the male line. Each male who inherited would then have as many children as possible, in the hopes of producing enough sons that one would survive the family's inexplicable curse. This seldom worked. In the last five generations, the estate had passed directly from father to son only one time. (And that lucky son, not wishing to break with family tradition, had married his first cousin.) Thus, each generation of the Fell family had a huge surfeit of girl children, only one of whom could be so lucky as to marry the male heir and lay claim to the vast Fell holdings. Some of the others would make successful marriages of their own and leave the name of Fell behind. The rest were destined to live out their lives in the buildings of the estate in squabbling, bickering spinsterhood. 

Four and a half years ago, when the heir apparent of the great Fell house had died from a hunting accident, the thin branches of the family tree had been searched for the correct heir and seventeen year old Aziraphale Fell had been plucked from his happy home, where he was the only son of a widow of barely respectable means, and brought to Empyrean Hall to live among his cousins and aunts and to receive the training and education that he would need to uphold the proud family tradition. Which is how he came to be at Empyrean Hall today, sitting in the dining hall, eating his lonely supper. 

***

Once he had had as much cold fish with congealed sauce as he could stand, Aziraphale took himself through the draughty halls, past the grandfather clock that had been purchased by his own great-great-grandfather, past the stone staircase, under the vaulted and coffered ceiling of the entryway to Uncle Gabriel’s wing of the hall, through the sitting area of Uncle Gabriel’s enormous bedroom, and finally to his own private room, where a well-banked fire and a warm bath stood ready to ward off the unseasonable chill.

There was no one to help Aziraphale with his clothes, so Aziraphale shook off his silk banyan, and folded it over the screen in front of the bath. It would serve as a dressing robe later. He removed cravat, house slippers, knee breeches, and stockings. He folded the clothes and laid them on a chair to be laundered and repaired. He tossed a few logs on the fire. Then he slipped out of his long white shirt and climbed into the portable metal tub on the floor. 

Undoubtedly, it had been the overworked fourth footman who had filled Aziraphale's tub, bucket by steaming bucket, with water carried up the narrow servants’ staircase from the great stove in Empyrean Hall's enormous subterranean kitchen. Knowing how much extra work the staff had to deal with in tending to his uncle, Aziraphale felt more than a bit guilty about his overreliance on the footmen for his dressing and the maintenance of his room. As a sort of penance, he kept his wardrobe very simple and sparse, so that the servants wouldn't have too much work maintaining his clothes. 

It was selfish of Aziraphale to refuse to hire a valet. He knew it. He should have hired someone for the job years ago. His uncle had a valet. But his cousin Michael, whom Aziraphale had displaced as the heir apparent, made do with the third footman and it would really be salting the wound for Aziraphale to have a valet when Michael didn't. And Aziraphale hardly needed any more conflict with cousin Michael. 

If he was more nearly honest with himself, the real reason Aziraphale hadn't hired a valet was his selfish insistence on unmeetable standards. A valet was such an important person in the life of a gentleman. The valet would be the man whose only care was Aziraphale's comfort and the care of his wardrobe. A man like that could be, in some way, a friend. A valet could be the person who knew your secrets, your most personal desires. He could be a person to tell your troubles to. A person whose opinions you might seek in matters of style and taste. Maybe even in matters of morals and ethics. He would be the person by your side whenever you were not in public, supporting you in every particular. He might live in a small room off of your own. A relationship with a valet was a lifelong partnership of the most intimate kind. And there was absolutely no man on Earth who could be worthy of that position in Aziraphale's life. Therefore Aziraphale had, somewhat belligerently, left the position of valet vacant. 

Aziraphale had no one to blame but himself for the fact that there was nobody there to help him dress when he finished with his bath. He dried himself off and shaved and then lounged in his banyan on a chaise underneath a window. He passed the time with a book of poetry that he'd lately acquired, written by a famous gentleman whom he’d met in passing, but who had recently fled the country in disgrace. He made his way through all the love poems just fine until he came to this stanza in a poem entitled "Love's Last Adieu" :

_Still hope, breathing peace through the grief swollen breast_

_Will whisper: O Our meeting we may yet renew: O_

_With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt . . ._

Aziraphale slammed the book shut and stared out the window at a section of the path that connected the stables to the house. His carriage for the evening was briefly visible as it trundled along that path on its way to the front door. It was a little coach. A very safe and stable vehicle, of the sort he preferred to ride in. At any rate, riding in an ordinary protected carriage would keep him from the elements. Though it was August, the chill rains might happen at any time. Summer simply hadn't come this year. Perhaps it never would again. 

When the first footman finally made his appearance, Aziraphale sat quietly in his chair and allowed himself to be dressed. The footman didn't inquire about the poetry book that Aziraphale had cast aside nor wonder aloud at his stormy mood. His conversation was genial: he didn’t express any passionate opinions, he didn’t discuss politics or philosophy or even the wonders of the modern industrial world. He talked about the unusually cold weather as he trimmed and tidied his master's sideburns. He knelt and tied the garters at the top of Aziraphale's calves in a perfectly efficient and impersonal way. As he helped Aziraphale into his pale blue knee-length breeches, he made mention of the brightness of the moon, and how good it would be for travel. He didn’t mention the stars at all. He styled Aziraphale's white blonde curls in an artful tousle that fell over his forehead. His fingers didn’t linger in Aziraphale’s hair. He barely touched him at all. 

The footman made the cravat crisp and neat and secure, as it should be, then he silently helped Aziraphale into his short black boots. He helped Aziraphale put on his favorite sky blue waistcoat and his dark blue wool tailcoat. He didn't look at the set of Aziraphale's face and make a perceptive suggestion that perhaps his master would be happier passing the evening in the library. No. The footman was a professional. He knew his place. He knew his job. He finished his work, looked Aziraphale over, whisked at his shoulders with a small broom, and nodded in satisfaction. 

Then the footman packed a bag with the necessities of the evening. Dancing shoes, pomade and combs, extra pins, and the like. He folded warmed blankets into tight little bundles. Then he picked up the blankets, Aziraphale’s bag, and a small bag of his own (which undoubtedly contained a box of playing cards and a flask of strong drink), and he silently followed at Aziraphale's heels as the young master made his way through Gabriel’s rooms and into an echoing hall, past the stairs, through the cavernous entry hall with its marble columns and soaring vaulted ceiling, through the front doors, over the stone courtyard, down the stairs and over the gravel to where the carriage waited. The footman opened the carriage door and helped him in. He adjusted a hot water bottle under the young lord’s feet and tucked a blanket around his legs. Then he shut the carriage door and climbed aboard. 

Aziraphale sat in the swaying body of the upholstered carriage with just his warmed blanket and hot water bottle for company. They gave him the benefits of human-like warmth, without any complications. He was alone, and he knew how to be alone, and it was fine. 

The sun was getting low, and the sky was fiery with oranges and reds extending from horizon to horizon and looming purple clouds everywhere. It was a sort of painful beauty, because the lovely sunsets had come with the gloomy weather, as if God was making an apology for laying waste to the world. Like the rainbow had been an inadequate apology for the flood. 

Those sorts of slightly blasphemous thoughts were precisely the sort of thoughts one might wish to share with a close and trusted friend, the kind one didn’t have to hide one’s true self from. As he looked out at the sky, Aziraphale allowed himself to admit that he didn’t really want to go out and celebrate nothing with wealthy strangers on a night when it felt like the world was ending. There were signs and portents everywhere, from the abandoned farms in the countryside and bread riots in the cities, to the wars all over Europe. It seemed like a thing that should be faced, and not ignored with ballroom music and fine clothes. But sitting at home and thinking about it all would be more unbearable than going out. If only he had a friend to face it with, even if to simply share sardonic observations, he could face the reality, and maybe think of something useful to do for his countrymen in this time of historic suffering. 

But the thought of having a dear friend like that could only lead to melancholy. Aziraphale resolved to guard his thoughts before they fell into old ruts. He had to prevent himself from dwelling on things that couldn't be undone, and keep them focused on small and solvable problems, like young Miss Hunt's quest for a husband. And tomorrow's task of finding a home for the (presumably) orphaned baby that had been left at the gatehouse. 

The gatehouse was coming into view right now and it occurred to Aziraphale that it might be interesting to find out some of the details about the abandoned infant, so that he would have something productive to ponder during the two hour drive to the ball. Accordingly, as they neared the gatehouse, he tugged on the string that alerted the driver. Then he waited patiently for his footman to dismount and come round to the window. He explained his purpose to the footman and waited for him to knock at the door of the gatehouse. Then he took the blanket off his legs and put his hat on. 

The gatekeeper emerged, with two young daughters following him. The girls stood in the doorway and gaped as the footman opened the door, unfolded the steps and helped Aziraphale to exit the carriage.

"Do you want to see the babe, sir?”, said the gatekeeper. “Only it's asleep on my wife's breast. Wee thing-- a few days old, she says."

"No," replied Aziraphale. "Mustn't disturb it if it's quiet." 

The gatekeeper nodded sagely. 

"I do wonder if you can tell me about the circumstances surrounding the infant. What the man looked like who left it, whether a blanket or a note might have been left."

"As to what was left with it," replied the gatekeeper, "There was a basket and a red cloth. He handed me the basket and left before I knew what was inside. I'll bring everything to you, sir."

And a moment later, the man brought out a red square of fabric and a wicker basket. A faded blue hair ribbon was wound ‘round the top of the basket's handle. Aziraphale unwound the ribbon as the gatekeeper spoke.

"The man," said the gatekeeper. "Didn't get a good look at him. He was all in black, not a gentleman though; Black hair; Face streaked with filth. I couldn't get a good look at his features; Driving like a mad-man. Had a two wheeled gig with a black horse. Shouted from the road, and when I came out, he handed me the basket, gave your full Christian name, sir, and then sped off to the north without another word. 

Aziraphale was nodding along. But from the moment he'd seen the blue hair ribbon, he had already known what the mysterious man in the fast gig had looked like. And when he unwound the ribbon and examined it, he saw that there was a name written on it in ink: 'Constance.'

"Back to the stables," said Aziraphale to the driver. “Change of plans.” 

***

Nearly two hours later, Aziraphale was astride a grey gelding, at a moonlit intersection deep in the countryside. He followed the narrow track that intersected the main road. A gap in the hedgerow revealed a gate that led to a small field. He slipped past the gate and led the horse across the field very slowly. The horse's exhalations made little clouds that dissipated in the cool night air. As Aziraphale approached a copse of trees on the far side of the field, some of the branch shapes resolved themselves into a low black gig, with two tall spoked wheels. 

Aziraphale crept towards the gig. Nothing seemed to stir except for his horse, who made a snuffling noise as they drew close to it. Aziraphale smelled fresh manure nearby and realized that the one of the deep shadows behind the gig was, in fact, a dark horse standing near the trees with a dark rug over her back. 

The gig itself was empty, tilted forward, its two long shafts resting on the ground. Like all two wheeled gigs, it was little more than a cushioned bench balanced over an axle. It might have been the offspring resulting from an injudicious liaison between a racing chariot and a small sofa. There was a little platform for resting the feet, and at the front of that, a short dashboard wall whose chief utility, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, was to allow the occupants something to brace their feet against as they were tossed about. There was an awning, which, on a normal gig, would only be used to keep the sun off. But this wasn’t a normal gig. The awning had unusual metal brackets on the top of it that let the driver thread the reins over the top of the awning. In the back of the gig was a small platform that was built to hold a man rather than a piece of luggage. Riveted to the platform of this particular gig was a four foot tall bar with a metal cross piece on top. The cross piece had metal brackets. Long leather straps with metal buckles were hanging from the brackets. 

A soft voice from the trees called. "Aziraphale."

"Crowley?" he answered. 

"We need to talk."

"I should think so," said Aziraphale. He tied his horse to the gig and walked cautiously towards the voice. 

"Were you followed?"

"I'm alone," said Aziraphale. "Though the stableman thinks I've gone mad."

"Only you would wear white to a secret nighttime rendezvous," said Crowley. "I could see your hair and your cravat all the way across the field."

Crowley's voice was coming from waist level. He was sitting, straddling the widest part of a fallen tree, his legs sprawled on the dirt, his head resting against an upended root. His black clothes had blended in with the shadows. He had his arms wrapped around his chest and his collar turned up. 

"Yes, well, I'll take that under advisement for the next time I need to skulk around in the dark," said Aziraphale. "I was on my way to a ball. I exchanged my blue breeches for deerskin and came as fast as I dared."

"On your way to a ball in blue knee breeches?", said Crowley. "Not the same ones you--"

"Every man has his own sense of style," replied Aziraphale. He sniffed. "Did you drive all the way from London in that dangerous contraption?"

"My gig is a marvel of engineering," said Crowley. "A perfect pleasure to drive." He leaned forward and, with a protracted grunt, swung one leg around so that now he was sitting with both legs on the same side of the fallen trunk. The moonlight caught his face. It was gaunt, unshaved, and streaked with dirt. 

"You look frightful," said Aziraphale.

"Long week."

Quite without meaning to, Aziraphale pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and bent over and started to scrub at Crowley's cheek. Then he realized what he was doing and pulled his hand away. But he held out the handkerchief before Crowley's face until Crowley took it. 

Crowley brought the handkerchief to his face, then he paused with the handkerchief held against his upper lip. He seemed to be inhaling its scent. 

"I meant for you to tidy yourself up with it," said Aziraphale. 

Crowley shrugged and mopped his face. Then he absently tucked the handkerchief into his own sleeve. He took a flask out from underneath his dark coat and passed it up to Aziraphale. Aziraphale fixed him with an aggrieved look, but accepted the flask. Then he sat down next to him on the trunk of the fallen tree. He unscrewed the cap of the flask and took a swig from it. 

"Swill," said Aziraphale. 

"What do you expect me to buy with a driver's wages?"

Aziraphale stared out at the moonlit field. 

"Give that here," said Crowley. 

Aziraphale handed the flask over wordlessly. Crowley took a deep swallow and then passed it back.

"Do you still care about me?", asked Crowley. 

"What kind of a question is that?"

"Just," said Crowley. "Just answer it." 

Aziraphale glanced over at him for a moment and then he looked out over the field. He nodded once. Then he took another drink from the flask. 

Crowley exhaled. But he didn't speak. 

"What's this all about then?", said Aziraphale, at last. "What do you have to do with that baby?"

"Everything," said Crowley. "He's my son."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Claiming Fatherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Grief, Misogyny

"He's WHAT?"

"Hush! Do you want some passing driver to think you're being assaulted?", said Crowley. His voice was a low growl. He leaned closer. "Yes. Mine. My son."

"But how?”, said Aziraphale.“I mean, I didn't expect--"

"You thought I wouldn't remarry?", said Crowley. 

"Well," said Aziraphale. He huffed. "It was faster than I expected," he said at last. "Congratulations." Then, after a moment of silence, he gasped. "Oh no," he said. "Crowley."

"Yes," said Crowley. "She died soon after his birth. Bled out. I couldn’t stop it." His tone was flat, factual. 

Aziraphale could hear himself breathing in the dark. He felt a horrible squeezing in his chest. He licked his lips. He chanced a glance at Crowley's face and was surprised to see that the widower was completely dry eyed. His face was very still. But as Aziraphale looked closer, he saw sunken cheeks and circles under Crowley’s eyes that were dark enough to see, even in the dappled moonlight at the edge of the wood. 

"I'm so very sorry," said Aziraphale. 

"I want you to find a home for him here in the country,” said Crowley. “A good home, and you’ll pay for a decent upbringing."

"You can't be serious?"

Crowley was silent. He said nothing at all; he just looked at Aziraphale and nodded. 

"And what power do you think I have to make this happen? My purse is strictly controlled. I can't just pay for the upkeep of an orphan. My uncle will be outraged if he finds out. And my cousins will notice me sneaking money to a stranger's family."

"That's the point, Aziraphale," said Crowley. "They will notice. Think about it."

"You expect me to--?"

"Claim him as your own." 

"My what?"

"Your bastard, Aziraphale," said Crowley. 

Aziraphale spat out his mouthful of cheap alcohol in a fine spray. 

"No, listen to me," said Crowley. "This benefits us both. Your aunt and cousins suspect your inclinations; a baby would be proof against their suspicions."

"And they'll be scandalized!"

"All the better," said Crowley. "You take the matter to your uncle, tell him that you've made a mistake. Let it be a loud argument, let the servants overhear, let the household be in chaos over it. If your relatives are whispering about this baby, they'll never find the real scandal. You'll have cover for years."

Aziraphale was silent for a full minute. He considered. He handed the flask back to Crowley. Crowley accepted it back and took a sip. Crowley remained silent. He gave Aziraphale as much time as he needed to think it over. A courtesy. Or a manipulation tactic. Maybe both. It was hard to know. Things had never been uncomplicated between them. But, still, it was strange to think that Crowley no longer had any real reason to forbear. He could use the full power of his brilliantly manipulative mind to get Aziraphale to do what he wanted. And why shouldn’t he? No doubt, to his way of thinking, Aziraphale had wronged him. He would feel perfectly justified in seeking recompense. If that was what this was meant to be. 

Crowley’s argument, however, was not entirely meritless. Cousin Michael had been sniffing around rather closely in Aziraphale’s affairs and, only last month, had come distressingly near to uncovering Aziraphale's dalliance with the third son of a Marquess. It had been a purely physical arrangement, of course, so cutting things off had been quick and easy. No complications there. Still, the near miss had been disconcerting. 

But taking on the raising of a child seemed a bit of an overreaction to one little incident. 

“Is Michael still betrothed to your cousin Uriel?”, said Crowley. 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “They married this past March.”

“Ah,” said Crowley. His tone was carefully light, but Aziraphale understood exactly what he was insinuating. 

The fact that Michael had recently married Gabriel’s daughter Uriel was very suggestive that he expected Aziraphale to be disqualified. Uriel had very little money of her own, and so the only utility of the marriage was to cement Michael’s claim to the inheritance and the title. If Michael wasn’t planning on claiming Empyrean Hall, then he surely would have married a wealthier girl from a different family. Even though Michael’s plan to catch Aziraphale in his last dalliance had failed, as long as he believed that Aziraphale was a sodomite, he surely wouldn’t give up his prying and spying. And, unless Aziraphale gave up men altogether, eventually Michael would find the proof he was looking for. It was a comfortless thought to be sure. 

What Crowley was offering was an easy way to throw cousin Michael off the scent. Well, not easy, nothing could be easy if Crowley was involved. But potentially a good idea. A clever idea, in fact. Now that he thought of it, this thing that Crowley was proposing was something that Aziraphale should have thought of years ago. How hard was it to claim a bastard? He could have saved some poor unlucky girl and her baby from starvation, and gained exactly the sort of reputation that would protect him from suspicion. Easy plan. Brilliant. He was the educated one, and here was Crowley teaching him again. 

The problem was that Crowley's motives and interests here were not necessarily aligned with Aziraphale's. And in dealing with a tricky, intelligent man, one couldn't simply accept things at face value. As much as one might wish to trust him. 

"It will never work," Aziraphale said, at last. "The child will look nothing like me." 

"It's a baby, Aziraphale," said Crowley. "They all look the same; you can't tell one from another. You bring the matter to your uncle; you tell him it's yours. Even if he insists on seeing the baby, once it’s been placed out, he'll never set eyes on the child again. And both of our problems are solved. Your relatives will be all too happy to think that you're a scoundrel who takes advantage of lower class girls and they'll stop wondering why you haven't settled on any of the eligible young women who are throwing themselves at you. You endure a few months of arguments and then you're safe from being exiled across the sea. And my son gets to grow up in comfort and kindness. We both benefit."

Aziraphale was silent for another minute. He knew he was lost. He could never say no to this maddening man. Now it was just a matter of preserving his dignity. 

"I can't give your son an inheritance," said Aziraphale. "No matter how small the amount. Gabriel would never allow it, and it takes both of us to amend the entail. That's the law."

"Fine," said Crowley. "That's absolutely fine. No problem there. I just want you to place my son in a kindly home out here in the countryside where he can grow up straight and sturdy and with good air in his lungs. All I ask," said Crowley. "Is that I know where he is so that I can lay my eyes on him once a year. I'll send what I can, though I can't match your resources."

Aziraphale was furious with himself for what he was agreeing to. He had already spent so much on Crowley. The horse and the gig had been partly bought from funds he had supplied. And here was more money needed. That was what came of attempting to carry on a relationship outside of one's own rank. Sixteen months since they'd been intimate, and yet the need to spend money on Crowley never ended.

"I suppose that I can arrange for him to have schooling," said Aziraphale. "With an education, he'll never be so destitute as to be impressed into the army or have to go work in the salt mines. He'll never be a gentleman, but if the right family is chosen, he'll end up--"

"In the middle," said Crowley. "That's exactly what I would hope for."

Aziraphale sighed. It was true that if Empyrean Hall hadn't treated Crowley so cruelly, then Crowley would have stayed in service for years, then retired and raised children of his own, middle class children, who might have become servants in their turn. In a sense, he owed this to Crowley. To balance the scales, as it were, between their families. 

"So you'll do it?", said Crowley. "Is it an agreement?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. 

"Then he'll as good as have two fathers." 

Aziraphale took out his purse. "There's an inn in the village, not two miles south of here," he said. "The 'Bird in Hand'."

"They know me there," said Crowley. "I'll be recognized. It could compromise you."

"Right," said Aziraphale. "If you follow the main road seven miles to the north, there's a town. There are two good inns there. I'll put you and Bentley up for two nights at the ‘Bell’. I'll meet you there tomorrow." He handed some coins to Crowley, who put them in his own purse. "You should get some rest tonight. We'll sort the baby's new home out tomorrow afternoon."

"Agreed," said Crowley. 

Aziraphale took Crowley's hand. He squeezed it to seal the pact. And then everything fell apart.

Aziraphale heard Crowley’s sharp inhalation, and then a loud barking noise that might have been a sob. Crowley grasped Aziraphale's hand and pulled it up to lay it on his own cheek. His cheek was wet and greasy and filthy. Crowley held Aziraphale's hand there and took some gasping jagged breaths. His whole body started to shake. And then he fell against Aziraphale's side, wracked with sobs and saying incomprehensible things that finally resolved into: "Please. Just a little while. Please. I can't."

And so Aziraphale sat on a fallen log and held Crowley's head against his chest as Crowley wept and wept. Bentley came over, a silent black shadow, and she stood in front of them both and ducked her head down to rest her nose on the back of Crowley's head. Crowley couldn't support himself against this pressure and he slipped lower and lower until his head was on Aziraphale's knees, his whole body bent double and shaking. 

Aziraphale rubbed his back and whispered. "My poor dear boy," he said. "Dear, dear boy." 

Crowley’s sobs eventually slowed and stopped. He pushed himself up out of Aziraphale's lap and reached up to pull himself to standing with a hand on Bentley's headcollar. "Right," he said. "Sorry about all that. Shouldn't have. . . you know . . . well. Hard day. Hard week." He wiped his eyes with his hand. "Got to take care of this mare. Get her to that inn. Warm stable. I'll just--"

And he turned and stumbled, catching himself by grabbing onto his horse's mane. 

"It's fine," he said. "Little thing with my foot. Just have to go slow."

"Obviously it isn't fine," said Aziraphale. "Sit down before you do yourself a worse injury. I'll hitch Bentley to the gig." 

"Don't be ridiculous, Aziraphale," said Crowley. "You don't know the first thing about how to put on a harness."

"I can saddle my own horse."

"Not the same at all," said Crowley. "Just because you have a broad intelligence doesn't mean you can bypass the learning of skills." He stumbled along toward the gig, leaning on Bentley. Aziraphale followed close behind him, making his case.

"Well I have a broad intelligence," said Aziraphale. "And I can stand on two feet, so I'd say I'm in a better position than you." 

"Are you implying that I don't have a broad intelligence? Because I do."

"My goodness," said Aziraphale, as they emerged out of the shadows of the woods and into the moonlight. "Bentley looks as badly off as you do." He paused. "And you look terrible. How many days has it been? . . . Since?"

"Er-- yeah uh-- Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday--uh it's Wednesday, right?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. 

"So this is-- uh-- day three. Day three of the rest of my life. Whatever that means."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. “You poor thing.”

"First day was the worst," said Crowley. "So the worst is behind me. Get used to anything in time."

"You just buried your wife on Monday?"

"No," said Crowley. "Didn't . . . uh. Yeah. Uh. Probably was, uh, Tuesday. That they. You know. Probably just a pauper's grave. My fault. Took all the money and came here. You know me. Impulsive. Find out where she is when I get back to London. But, she would have wanted. . . " Crowley started to weep again. "Sorry," he said. "Just need a moment. Really grateful to you. What you're doing for our son. Don't mean to keep crying. You shouldn't have to put up with . . ."

"Nonsense, dear boy," said Aziraphale. All his hesitations had melted away in the face of Crowley's raw pain. "This is what we're going to do," he said. "We're going to hitch Ganymede to the gig. He's broken to harness. I'll drive. Bentley can follow behind. We'll go as slowly as she needs us to." 

"I'll drive," said Crowley. 

"You'll close your eyes and rest," said Aziraphale.

"Can't," said Crowley. And now he was half-laughing. "You're a terrible driver, Aziraphale. I won't feel safe with my eyes closed." 

They managed to harness Ganymede together. Crowley hopped around on one foot, giving orders and readjusting the harness wherever he felt Aziraphale had failed. Once Ganymede was hitched to the gig and Bentley was tied behind, Aziraphale heaved Crowley up into the gig, taking most of his weight and half-lifting him. Then Aziraphale climbed in beside him and carefully wrapped Bentley's rug around Crowley's shoulders. Crowley had always been slim, but now he was painfully thin. It couldn't just be grief. A man couldn't lose that much weight in three days. 

They pulled onto the road. It was just past midnight. The moon was high and the road was bright. Aziraphale tried to think about what to talk about. What to say to your friend who you used to be married to? Your friend who was twenty-six years old and newly a widower? Your friend who was giving you his child? Your friend who was obviously struggling to keep himself alive while you passed your time going to balls and gossiping with old women? Aziraphale looked over at Crowley. His cheeks were sunken and unshaved. His copper-red hair seemed to have been dyed black and was hanging in limp greasy strings around his face. The tightness in the muscles around his eyes showed either the physical pain of his injury or the emotional pain of his bereavement. What to say? What could be said? What did they even have in common anymore? 

After ten minutes on the road, Crowley handed the reins to Aziraphale. He said that he trusted the horse. He pulled Bentley’s rug around himself and closed his eyes. Ganymede took them around the potholes without being asked. He set a slow pace, which was a smart plan, as this was a badly repaired section of road. It was only to be expected in a famine year, when half of the farmers had run off, and none of those who remained were inclined to spend time or energy on their road-repair duties. 

Crowley slumped in the seat and breathed shallowly. He smelled terrible: stale manure, days old sweat, the distinctive acrid smell of London, and some other foul earthy scent that Aziraphale couldn't place. That was good. It reduced the temptation to touch him again. 

The silence between them was profound. They'd never had silences before. Just constant arguments, stories, and debates. In the old days. Which had only been sixteen months ago.

"I'd forgotten how slow he is," said Crowley. "Ganymede."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "I'm so sorry. We do need to get you to a warm bed. I should have been paying more attention. I'll--"

"It's fine," said Crowley. "Just, let him be. Bentley really shouldn't go much faster anyway."

Aziraphale watched the road. It was like a river of moonlight between the dark hedgerows. And he and Crowley were floating along the river together. 

"He's not lazy," said Aziraphale. "Just cautious."

"Not saying he's a bad horse," said Crowley. "I like him. He's intelligent. Good disposition. Just not destined to be a hunter or a carriage horse."

"He suits me perfectly fine," said Aziraphale. 

"I know he does," said Crowley. "I named him, you know."

"Oh?", said Aziraphale. “I hadn’t known.”

"Before your time, back when I was still living in the big house, the valet read us this story about a beautiful boy beloved by the god Zeus," said Crowley. "I always remembered it. Then, years later, when I was in the stables, we got him. Beautiful grey gelding. He was purchased at the same time you arrived at Empyrean Hall. It was before you and I--"

Crowley paused. He was clearly realizing what he had just stumbled into, and now he started talking faster, trying to find a graceful way back out of the mire. 

"Yea-wh-uh . . . So I got the opportunity to suggest a name, and I picked that one, and your uncle didn’t hate it. So it stuck. Unh."

“It's a lovely name,” said Aziraphale. Having the social fortitude to forge on past awkwardly honest moments was a critical skill for living among the gentry. “Perfect for him.”

"Eyah,” said Crowley. “Glad to see you still enjoy him."

"Yes. He's a pleasure."

"Does he still eat his bedding?"

"I'm afraid so," said Aziraphale. 

They lapsed into silence again. Aziraphale found that he was only mildly horrified to find that his horse’s name was not, as he had always supposed, a strange coincidence. Crowley was very pointedly looking off to the side of the road. 

Aziraphale realized that he didn't know the name of Crowley's late wife. That seemed like something he ought to ask. But it would be rude to ask a question that might lead to another emotional breakdown like the one that happened among the trees. Especially with Crowley trapped in the gig. Clearly Crowley was discomfited enough. It would be cruel to ask a question that would cause him to embarrass himself again. Best to be silent. 

Crowley shifted on the seat as he adjusted his foot to stick it out sideways. He jostled Aziraphale, and then apologized. 

"What happened to your foot?"

"My own fault," said Crowley. "Stupid accident. I was impatient with Bentley. She ran over my foot."

"When?"

"This afternoon. Could have been worse. Was the last day. We made it. That's what matters."

"I'll get a doctor for you tomorrow."

"No need," said Crowley. "I'll bandage it myself."

They sat. They had at least an hour more to go. Nearly one and a half years had passed since they'd last spoken. So much had happened. And they had nothing to say. At the beginning of things, they used to be upset if there was a day where they couldn't at least exchange a few words. An hour-long drive would have been a rare luxury. They'd have talked over each other in their eagerness to make sure that every possible thing was said before they reached their destination and had to be strangers again.

"Nice night," said Crowley. "Clearer than usual. Makes a nice change."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "It does. And although I'm glad of the moonlight on the road, I do wish I had the opportunity to see the stars."

"You can still make out enough of them," said Crowley. "It's London where you can't see anything. Streetlights, smoke, buildings. Some nights I can't even find the North Star."

"Can you find it now?", said Aziraphale. 

"Yes," said Crowley. "Absolutely. It's ahead. Just over the, uh, the, the edge of the road. My side-- look straight up from there."

"I see it now."

They both watched the stars and the moonlit road and the passing trees. Then Crowley spoke again.

"Do you still come up to London these days?", said Crowley. "For the season?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "Can't avoid it," he said. "Family duty."

"Tell them to take a long walk off a short cliff," said Crowley. "Spend your winters how you like. Life is too short to waste. Take it from me."

Aziraphale couldn't think of quite the right thing to say. His whole life was all about always knowing the right thing to say, but he was caught flat. A long painful silence followed. 

"Didn't mean to put that on you again," said Crowley. "I'm a bit maudlin today. Sorry."

"No," said Aziraphale. "It's me who should be sorry. You are the one who . . . You just say whatever comes to mind. You needn't worry about upsetting me. You have the right to be maudlin. If anyone does." He looked over at his companion. "I'm not going to change my mind about taking care of your son. My mind is fixed. No matter what you say from here on." 

"I'm glad to hear that you are still a stubborn thing," said Crowley. "Watch that pebbly section up ahead. The uh-- the, the-- your side."

"I see it," said Aziraphale. "Nice to know you still feel free to correct your superiors."

***

Aziraphale made it back home just at sunrise. He stopped at the gatehouse to look at Crowley’s son. The baby looked very small to Aziraphale but Mrs. Tyler assured him that he was a normal and healthy newborn. He thanked her and promised that the child would be off to a new home very soon. He rode back to the stables, where every man and boy who cared for any animal on the estate was very casually going about his very normal work very nearby. 

"Glad to see you safely home, Mr. Fell," said the stableman. "Ganymede looks well. Looks like he had a bit of a rest at a stable during the night?"

"Er--", said Aziraphale. Every man and boy in earshot fell silent. "I'm wanted at breakfast," he said. And he fairly ran toward the Hall.

It was good that he hadn't eaten anything since the night before, because Aziraphale was certain that if there was anything at all in his stomach, he'd be depositing it onto the lawn right now.

'Right,' he told himself, as he hurried up the path, 'Keep it simple. Take it on the chin. It will all be worth it in the end.'

He climbed the stairs and crossed the patio and went through the doors. The steward himself was on hand to greet him, and to look him over very thoroughly, from his mud-encrusted boots, to the black grease stains on his breeches and coat, to his disheveled curls and conspicuously absent hat. The steward took his coat without comment. The second footman offered him a pair of house slippers and whisked his filthy boots away, disappearing behind a hidden door. Aziraphale imagined that he heard the lower servants whispering on the other side of that door. 

"Lord Ambrosden wishes to see you in his private study, sir," said the steward. And he led the way. By an implausible coincidence, both the butler and the housekeeper just happened to pass them in the hall as they walked to Gabriel’s wing of Empyrean Hall. 

They got to the entryway with the vaulted ceiling that led to Gabriel’s private study, private library, bedroom, and sitting room. While the steward announced him to his uncle, Aziraphale stood outside the door of the study. Three maids passed quietly through Gabriel’s entryway. Aziraphale fixed his eyes on the door in front of him and tried to mentally review the very simple story that Crowley had made him memorize. 

The doors opened. He put one foot in front of the other until he was standing in front of his uncle's desk. He felt the air move as the heavy door swung shut behind him. He heard it latch. 

"So," said Gabriel. "Did you have a good ride?"

"Uh," said Aziraphale. 

"I find that a good ride is just the thing to clear my mind when I have troubles," said Gabriel. 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "About that. It seems--" And here, he made the mistake of lifting his eyes up high enough to see Gabriel's hands. They were resting on his desk. The fingers of his less swollen hand were tapping, very slightly, on the wood.

"Go on," said Gabriel. 

"Well," said Aziraphale. "The thing is. Well, um. It's very awkward to admit . . ."

"I imagine it must be."

"I seem to have. Inadvertently, of course, um. Well. I've fathered a child." The last sentence came out all in a high-pitched tumble of words. 

Gabriel was silent. Which was worse than him shouting. Because that meant that the shouting would come in a few minutes, and the longer the wait before the shouting began the worse it would be. The thing to keep in mind, of course, was that this was the goal. The goal was for Gabriel to shout so loudly that the servants heard. This was the plan. Which didn't stop Aziraphale from trembling a little. But trembling was good. It added to the verisimilitude of the performance. 

"A boy," said Aziraphale. "Very healthy. Good and healthy. Strong." Aziraphale stood up straight and thrust his chin out defiantly. It was a pose that befitted a virile young man who fathered boys. 

"Mmmm," said Gabriel. "And the mother?"

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "That's the problem, you see." 

"Someone's daughter?"

He really should have been prepared for this question. Aziraphale hadn't bothered to think up names for the imaginary woman's parents. He was terrible at making up names. So he stalled. 

"Of course. That is to say: Every woman is someone's daughter. So. Yes. Er--"

"I mean is she the daughter of someone of consequence?"

"What? No. No. Not at all. Her family is poor. Very. Poor." 

"No one in her family has a title?", said Gabriel. "Her family has no resources whatsoever?"

"No, none!", said Aziraphale. 

"Well," said Gabriel. "Then you aren't a complete idiot." 

"What?"

"As I said last night, I expect you to deal with it. Give her five pounds and be done."

"But she's dead!"

"All the better," said Gabriel. "Drop the baby off at the parish in Boarstall. They don't know your face there. Give them the five pounds. It's coming out of your allowance. I hope this serves as a lesson to you. Stick to fornicating with the older women who seem to find you so charming. That will keep you out of trouble. Older women don't tell and they don't swell." 

"But--", said Aziraphale.

"If you insist on chasing younger girls, pick girls of no rank and let them use their mouths, or use the back door."

"Uh," said Aziraphale. He was blushing. It was fairly horrifying to hear his old uncle describing lewd acts. He was also furiously angry. It was a confusing set of feelings, and his mouth seemed to have temporarily forgotten how to make words.

"Don't sully any of the daughters of men who have rank. That can end in a duel. Or worse: a disadvantageous marriage."

"But, sir, how can you expect--"

"And no whores. The next earl of Ambrosden can't be syphilitic."

"Five pounds, sir, it doesn't seem a reasonable amount--"

"I intend for this to be a painful lesson to you Mr. Aziraphale Fell. I won't have you littering the countryside with bastards. Answer me again and you'll be donating twenty pounds to the church."

"Sir, please," said Aziraphale. "I mean to take care of the baby. On an ongoing basis."

"Oh?", said Gabriel. There was a dangerous tone to his voice. "Planning to bring it into the nursery, or should we put the cradle in your room?" He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. "Shall we call on the lawyers and see about setting up an annuity? Perhaps look into buying a new pony?"

Aziraphale looked at the coldly furious old man in front of him and he remembered the sobbing widower that he'd held in his arms last night, and he realized that he felt a great deal more kinship with the latter than with the former. Crowley had risked his life and livelihood for this baby. This was Crowley's son. And that meant . . . 

"I won't abandon my son," said Aziraphale. "I simply won't."

"A soft heart is a dangerous thing in a man with a habit of fathering bastards," said Gabriel.

"We are meant to be a moral example," said Aziraphale. "I've made a mistake, but I won't let an innocent child suffer for it. I am going to find him a kindly home in the countryside and I will pay for his upbringing."

"It comes out of your allowance," said Gabriel. 

"So be it."

"Fool."

Aziraphale took that for a dismissal. 

  
  



	3. Giving up Adam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: reference to death of infant

  
  


Aziraphale left his uncle's private study and stepped out into the entryway. Off the entryway, connected to it by a set of double doors that were never closed, was Uncle Gabriel’s sitting room. And, in the sitting room, lounging at his ease on a sofa and pretending to read a book, was Aziraphale’s cousin, Michael. 

"You look tired,” said Michael. "Having some sort of trouble?"

Crowley had made a plan for this, too: ‘Just don't say anything,’ Crowley had said. He’d been sitting on a stool in the inn’s stable with his leg propped up on an upside down bucket. ‘Anything you say will give them information. Your relatives will fill in the blanks with whatever story makes the most sense to them. You just blush and stammer, and they'll assume they have it right. Don't say a single word.’

This advice proved easy to follow. Aziraphale could feel himself blushing already.

Michael tilted his head to the side. "Who did you run off to see last night?"

"Uh," said Aziraphale. 

"Was it the mother of your bastard? Maybe her angry relatives? I hear there was a name left with the baby. Is she anyone I know? Was it love? I bet it you thought it was."

"Whah, uh," said Aziraphale. 

"I can see it in your face," said Michael. "You're heartbroken. Did you just realize that she only wanted you for the money? That's what that kind of woman is always after. And you fell for it. Did she ask you to marry her?"

"No," said Aziraphale. (‘Don't let them goad you into speaking,’ Crowley had said.)

"And now there's a baby, and her family doesn't want it," said Michael. "How embarrassing for you." 

"I've nothing to be embarrassed about." 

"Really?" said Michael. 

"I'm not talking to you," said Aziraphale. And he marched to his room, locked the door, and fell, face first, into his bed. 

***

Crowley awoke in a tiny bed in a tiny room that had plaster walls and a wood beam ceiling. The light in the room was very bright, so he closed his eyes. Eventually, the dull ache behind his eyes resolved into knowledge that he wished he didn’t have. 

'Bess is dead', he told himself. 'I'm somewhere near Empyrean Hall and Bess is in London and she's dead and our baby is alive.' He realized that his foot was throbbing. That seemed unfair. He lay still and, eventually, he got used to the throbbing. But didn’t get used to Bess being dead. He counted the days on his fingers. It took him three tries before he got it right. Day four. It was day four. 

He closed his eyes. Time passed. He opened them. The angle of the light was different. There were people outside his window, shouting back and forth at each other. Obviously they hadn't heard the news. 

'All right, Crowley,' he said. 'Time to get up. You have to find a home for Anthony and Bess's son. Kindly parents. As kindly as they would have been. Someplace beautiful. With trees and grass. Like their child deserves.' 

He sat up too quickly. His head spun violently. He closed his eyes and leaned against the headboard. The vertigo didn't vanish, it just transmuted from a physical sensation to a soul-deep queasiness. 

"I can't do this," said Crowley. "I can't." And he covered his face with his hands and sobbed. His tears were nearly non-existent. His mouth was dry. He was completely wrung out. All he had were spasms, as his body tried to squeeze out moisture that didn't exist anymore. 

The spasms slowly diminished. He gradually started to be able to hear sounds over the sounds of his own gulping and panting. Someone outside was tapping something. The sound hurt his head because it wasn't the same tempo as his breathing. He scrubbed at his face with the breast of his shirt. The smell of Aziraphale's perfume filled his nose. He had a vague and humiliating memory of crying himself to sleep in Aziraphale's arms. 

The tapping outside continued. He realized that it was actually someone knocking at the door of the bedroom.

"What?", he snarled.

The door opened a crack. It was Aziraphale, standing outside in the hall. 

"There you are," said Aziraphale. "They said you weren't awake. It’s late afternoon. I've brought you some beef broth from the kitchen."

"Yeeeahrh," said Crowley. "Was jusss heading down." Slow breaths. Deep breaths. He was in nothing but his long cotton shirt. Had Aziraphale undressed him too? 

"Well," said Aziraphale. "I thought you might have some trouble with the stairs, and so . . ." 

There was a sweet deferential smile. Pretty blue eyes with corners that crinkled with compassion. Crowley turned his head toward the wall so he could keep a grip on his emotions. How dare Aziraphale act so familiar? Bringing soup as if he were a family member. As if they were still everything to each other. As if none of the last two years had even happened. 

"How do you feel?" 

The voice was right next to his ear. Solicitous. Patient. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. His chest ached, which was a warning that the spasms of grief might rise again. The only defense was anger. But he couldn't yell at the man who was about to save his child from growing up in a London slum. There had to be something else. Some way other than cursing to push back the rising wave of despair. 

"Perhaps just a few sips of broth to get you started?" 

The side of the bed sank. Crowley tried for deep breaths, but his chest squeezed tight, and all he could manage were shallow and raspy gasps. His mouth was painfully dry. He tried to focus on the throbbing in his foot, tried to get that to anchor him. He concentrated his attention on the blooming pain, how it spread down to his toes and up to his knee. It worked. He was able to take a slow deep breath. The injury was a blessing right now. 

Crowley lifted his heavy eyelids. He was looking at the cracked plaster wall. He turned his throbbing head to see Aziraphale lifting a spoonful of broth out of the bowl. As if he were an invalid. 

"I'm fine," said Crowley. "Give that here." 

Aziraphale put the spoon back into the bowl and held the bowl out toward him. He took it with both hands. The liquid in the bowl started to tremble and slosh and then there was pressure on the back of one of his hands. Aziraphale was helping him to hold the bowl. As if he was a child. 

"Here we go," said Aziraphale. He lifted the spoon to Crowley's lips.

Crowley opened his mouth. The broth was warm, earthy, salty. It didn't taste quite right. Too bitter. He didn't want it at all, but it was in his mouth and he needed to get rid of it. He swallowed. His belly felt queasy. He rested the back of his head against the headboard and closed his eyes. The warm bowl felt good in his hands. 

Something nudged his shoulder. 

"Come on," said Aziraphale. "Another one."

His head throbbed. His foot throbbed. His belly throbbed. His own breathing sounded loud to him. 

The warmth disappeared from his hands. There was a scraping noise, and a clanking. The noise hurt. The bed shifted under him. His head and shoulders were lifted, and the pillow rearranged behind them so that he wasn't leaning directly on the headboard anymore. When the bed sank again, he felt queasy. There was a warm hard pressure at the corner of his mouth.

"Open up." 

He did. He opened his eyes and then his mouth and he let the bitter broth in, and he swallowed. Nausea again. Broth was a bad idea right now. 

"Uh uh," he said. And he closed his eyes and drifted away.

***

The damned spoon was back. Crowley opened his mouth. He'd learned that this was the only way to get rid of the painful hard pressure against the corner of his mouth. He swallowed. It wasn't making him nauseous anymore. He was chilly. This was a terribly cold summer. He couldn't seem to get warm. He heard his teeth chatter. 

The bed moved. Something shifted around his legs. There was a heavy weight over his whole body. Then the spoon returned. 

"One more swallow," said Aziraphale. "Then I'll let you rest again."

***

"Well," said Aziraphale. "You do look a lot better."

Crowley opened his eyes. There was a candle on the table near his bed. It cast a warm glow around the room. 

"But I'm afraid I'm going to make you endure another bowl of broth."

***

The sun was up. There was a patch of sunlight on the cracked plaster wall. What day was it? Day four? No. Three? No. Five. Had he made it to day five already? Crowley’s foot still throbbed just like before, but now there was another throbbing pain, low in his belly. He rolled over, intending to grope under the bed and find the pot, but there was someone on the floor of the tiny room. It was Aziraphale. He and his bedding filled all of the space between Crowley's bed and the wall. The aristocrat was sleeping on the hard floor and Crowley was in a soft bed. Everything was backwards. 

Crowley's problem was urgent, but the least he could do was to take care of it on his own without waking his roommate. Crowley rolled onto his belly at the edge of the bed and reached his hand under in hopes that the pot would be within reach, and it was. His fingers found the handle. He pulled it sideways very slowly but it still made a loud scraping noise on the floor.

"What?!", said Aziraphale, and he sat up. "How are you feeling?" He saw the chamber pot by his ear. "Oh,” he said. “I'll get out of your way. Give me just a moment." And Aziraphale rolled to his knees, picked up the top of his bedroll and shuffled it down toward the foot of the bed. He sat on the doubled up blankets, facing the wall. "Go on, then," he said.

The next minutes were a series of small humiliations. After he was done with the pot, Aziraphale observed that Crowley hadn’t shaved in a few days and offered his own scented soap and ivory handled razor. And when Crowley refused them, Aziraphale suggested that Crowley’s shaking hands might not be ready to hold a straight-razor, and offered to do the job himself. Which was a thing that was absolutely not going to happen between them. 

Then Aziraphale bent down and started probing Crowley’s swollen and bruised foot with his fingertips. He declared that Crowley was going to have to do without his boot for the day. 

"But the stableman said it wasn't broken," said Aziraphale. "When he wrapped it up. You remember that, right?"

Crowley couldn’t remember the stableman. Everything from the past few days was jumbled. And just as he was trying to sort it out, Aziraphale started talking again. Crowley struggled to concentrate on what he was hearing. 

“We should probably make another try at getting that black grease out of your hair,” said Aziraphale. “You’ve entirely ruined your pillow case and you’ve stained your shirt too.”

Crowley reached up and touched his hair. He’d forgotten about his disguise. And the reason for his disguise. 

“The gatekeeper,” said Crowley. “Did he recognize me?”

“Mr. Tyler was terrified of you,” said Aziraphale. “He says you nearly ran him over in the road and that your horse was out of control. But he had no idea who you were.”

“Good,” said Crowley. The throbbing in his foot made it hard to concentrate on the things he wanted to concentrate on. He’d had a whole plan. Fresh air. Trees. Kindly home. That was it. Now how to get to his goal from where he was? He needed to get dressed, obviously. And where was Bentley? 

“I think we’d best wash it in the yard, under the pump,” said Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale had used the word ‘we,’ as if there still was a ‘we’. As if it hadn’t been his choice to end ‘we’. What did he even mean by that? 

“Do you need help with your breeches?”

“Wot?”, said Crowley. “No.” He hopped over to the basin, looked in the glass above it, and saw a gaunt stranger with dark hair and scraggly patches of stubble. But he knew it must be his face. Even now, the damned scars were still visible as pinkish-white rivulets that cut through the copper stubble from his temple to just above his chin. 

Crowley washed his face. He refused Aziraphale’s help in getting dressed. He sat to pull on his single stocking then he leaned on the wall for support when it was time to tuck in his shirt and button his breeches. He wasn’t fast enough at reaching over to grab his waistcoat, so it was Aziraphale who handed it to him. And then, as he was leaning out to pluck his stained and rumpled white cravat off the back of a chair, Aziraphale reached into his own bag, pulled out a long strip of starched black linen, and silently proffered it. 

Somehow, Crowley’s fumbling hands couldn’t figure out how to tie a black cravat. The mirror had a slight distortion to it, which was unexpectedly distracting. Aziraphale quietly took over, wrapping the black cravat twice around Crowley’s neck and tying it neatly, magnanimously ignoring Crowley’s leaking eyes as he worked.

“There,” Aziraphale said, as he stepped back. “It’s a good thing that only a simple knot is required for mourning. As that’s all I know how to tie.”

Crowley mopped his face dry and put on his boot and coat and hat. With Aziraphale’s help, he staggered down the stairs and out to the stable. After he had reassured Bentley that he was still alive, he nervously agreed that she should be turned out for the day. Then he washed his hair under a pump, pretended to eat breakfast, and borrowed Aziraphale’s cane to help him hop to his gig, where Ganymede was already hitched and waiting to take them to wherever they were going. 

Where they were going was to every village in the region. Whenever they arrived in any populated area, Aziraphale would go into the local public house and make some inquiries. But he always came out looking disappointed and with directions to the next village. By mid-afternoon, they reached a village called Tadfield. And, there, for the first time, when Aziraphale emerged from the local inn, he came out looking determined. 

He directed Crowley to follow a narrow road for a quarter mile. As they drove, Aziraphale explained that there was a potentially suitable family that owned a small freehold just past the edge of the village. They had a poultry farm, and they’d lately taken over their neighbours’ abandoned barley fields, using them as pasture for their hens and geese. When Crowley and Aziraphale arrived at the farm, Crowley sat in the gig while Aziraphale got out to investigate the farm. 

As soon as Aziraphale reached the gate, a well-groomed and surprisingly well-fed little girl greeted him with loud shouts. At his request, she brought her mother out. The woman shuffled to the gate and gave the aristocrat an awkward curtsy. Her face was still and somber. She agreed that she was able to take on a newly born baby, her own infant having been stillborn earlier in the week. 

A short little man came running over from a nearby field. His name was Mister Arthur Young. He was awkward and overwhelmed, clearly intimidated by the well-dressed man at his gate. His eyes were a little sunken and his face showed that certain sort of strain that comes from pushing through sorrow. But even if he was a sad man, Mr. Young was not a cruel one. Crowley saw that Mr. Young's little daughter held his hand confidently, and that she looked up into her father's face without any trace of fear. 

Aziraphale turned his head to look back in the carriage, where Crowley sat, with one foot shod and the other bandaged. Crowley nodded his assent. Aziraphale turned his attention back to the family. 

"Twelve pounds per year, paid in quarterly installments," said Aziraphale. "Contingent upon the health and well being of the child."

The woman's eyes widened. Crowley could see her mental calculation. Taking this baby would probably increase the yearly income of her little farm by half. 

"For how long?", she asked.

"For as long as the child remains well and healthy," said Aziraphale. "Expect me to visit at least quarterly. I intend to oversee his education, but otherwise I want him to be treated as your own son."

Mr. Young sputtered his agreement and Mrs.Young promised to treat the child as her own. Crowley didn't doubt their word at all. The man was completely guileless. And the woman's face showed that she knew she was getting an aristocrat's bastard. It was a stroke of luck the likes of which they'd never see again. Aziraphale was bringing them a blessing that could soften their tragedy. They'd be better off than they had been before. At least, in some ways. 

"Well," said Aziraphale, after he and Crowley had gotten underway again, "I'm quite satisfied with the family. They seem to be just as kindhearted as the mistress of the pub said they would be. Crowley?"

"They're perfect," he replied. "And your generosity is more than I could possibly have expected." He kept his eyes on the road and ignored the tight feeling in his chest. 

After another mile had passed, and he trusted himself to speak again, Crowley started the unavoidable conversation about plans. It was agreed that Aziraphale would take the child directly from Empyrean Hall to Tadfield in his family’s carriage. Unfortunately, there was no practical way to arrange for Crowley to see his baby again before he started for home. Every day Crowley delayed his return increased the chances that Bentley’s spot in her London stable would be given away. 

It was also agreed that Aziraphale would visit Tadfield four times a year and would send letters to Crowley to keep him apprised of the baby's growth. "Midsummer would be the obvious best time for your annual visit," said Aziraphale. "We can meet at that little inn in the center of town, and we'll pop on over to the farm together. 

Crowley made an affirmative noise through gritted teeth. 

"He'll need a name, of course," said Aziraphale. "He should take the surname of the adoptive father, but perhaps you'd want his first name to be Anthony?" The road went wavy and shimmery in front of Crowley's eyes. 

"All you all right, dear fellow?", said Aziraphale. And he took the reins from Crowley's suddenly limp hands. He drove them to a place that had a shoulder and pulled off under a shady tree. This time, at least, Crowley managed to not throw himself into Aziraphale's lap or say anything mortifying. He pulled himself together without making any needy clingy gestures at all. He simply wrapped his arms around himself and looked off at the hedgerow until the tears and trembling had passed. 

When he could trust himself to speak again, Crowley said: "Adam. She wanted to name him Adam.”

***

The night after he placed Crowley's son at the poultry-farmer’s house, Aziraphale endured the most mortifying hours he had ever yet spent in his uncle’s presence. 

The evening began with a standard angry lecture: The waste of money. The potential for scandal. 

The conversation took a turn into dangerous territory when the old man said: "Well, I'm glad of one thing. There were rumors going around this house that you were a molly; that you'd never marry. That you sold your mother’s jewelry in London for money to spend on male whores."

“What?” said Aziraphale. “Well, that’s not . . .”

“So,” said Gabriel. "Now that we’re being honest with each other: in London, in years past, who did you spend that money on?"

Aziraphale had a moment of panic. The money had, in fact, been given to Crowley. 

"More bastards?!!", cried Gabriel. 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Exactly that. Lots of bastards. I'm afraid my self-control when I was younger . . ." 

“Well,” said Gabriel. “In a way it is my fault for neglecting your training.” He made Aziraphale unlock and open up a drawer in his desk. There was a compartment in the back, which he obliged Aziraphale to open. In that was a large tin. And in the large tin were:

“Contraceptive and preservative sheaths!”, said Gabriel. 

***

On the last night of his trip home to London, Crowley wandered out to the stable yard and looked up at the stars. He knew that it was his last chance to enjoy them before he was in the city and the smoke from the city’s chimneys blocked his view. The night sky in London was worse than ever, lately. Since the volcanic ash had started to block the sky, there had been nothing to see in London but the moon and sometimes Venus or Jupiter peeking through the featureless blackness. 

Many years ago, before he lived in London, before the volcano had erased the stars, a youth, who still thought of himself as Anthony, used to stand on the roof of Empyrean Hall and look up at the dizzying sea of stars in the dark winter sky and feel that he could touch the heavens. At that time, he had loved two things: the stars and Empyrean Hall. After all, Empyrean Hall had taken him from his mother’s arms when he was only eight years old, and it had promised him a good life, a cultured life, a life of learning and exposure to the arts, all in exchange for loyal service to gentlefolk who were God's own scions on Earth. But that had been a pretty lie. In the fifteen years he had served there, Empyrean Hall had taken Crowley’s innocence, his beauty, and, finally, his heart. Then they branded him a criminal and cast him out. 

And now Crowley was a criminal, a criminal many times over. But a criminal who understood the truth of how the world worked and what was right and what was wrong. And, if it weren’t for missing the stars, he would feel nothing but joy about his separation from Empyrean Hall. Because he understood the rot at the heart of that awful place, and all the places like it, and he knew what they did to the people who built their entire lives around squabbling over inheritances. 

Aziraphale was being changed by that life. It was a gradual enough process that it had been hard to see when they saw each other every week, but after a year and a half of being apart, Crowley could see clear changes. It wasn't just that Aziraphale had gained weight. He'd also gained the ability to be suspicious. He hadn't immediately trusted in Crowley's plan. He'd thought twice and three times. He'd made sure that it was in his own interests before he agreed. Aziraphale was still an unusually compassionate man. But compared to how he used to be, he was a little more selfish, a little more complacent, a little more comfortable in his hedonism. He wasn't a manipulative mastermind. He probably never would be. But he no longer wore his heart on his sleeve and he no longer made grand plans without thinking about the bigger picture.

A relationship was not ever going to be possible between a man like Aziraphale and someone like Crowley. Only someone very young and foolish would even try to make something like that work. Aziraphale wasn't foolish anymore, and neither was Crowley. But Crowley had just bet his son's future on the hope that Aziraphale's nostalgia and his compassion would remain stronger than his self-interest or his loyalty to his horrible family, at least for a few years. Twelve pounds a year really wasn't much to Aziraphale, but, until Crowley got his business debts paid, twelve pounds would make the difference between his son living in a crowded London tenement or breathing fresh country air. 

The question in Crowley's mind was whether Aziraphale would fully transform into an aristocrat. There was a certain level of wealth, in Crowley's opinion, that just rotted people. It was possible that Aziraphale would eventually abandon Adam, abandon the quarterly payments, abandon the last shreds of the impossible dream he'd once had for a life shared with Crowley. But, if that should happen, many years hence, Crowley would have his business well established. He'd have the means to pay for his son on his own. Maybe not twelve pounds a year at first, but enough that the Youngs wouldn't abandon him. And then Adam could be apprenticed to a tradesman in the countryside. Definitely the countryside. Children couldn't grow straight and tall in the city. The very air was poisonous. 

Crowley sat on a stone wall on the edge of a stable yard twenty miles northeast of London. He looked up at the stars, those few that could be seen through the haze and the moonlight. He hadn't prayed in years; he'd long ago lost faith that God was listening to him. But tonight he looked up at the stars and spoke to his dead wife. "I did it, Bess," he said. "I gave our son away. I'll think of him all the time. Just like I'll think of you. I don't think my heart is built to ever stop loving, once I start. I can't seem to ever move on. I think I'm destined to just have a life filled with people that I love who I can't touch anymore."

***

In London, the only star that could reliably be seen was the morning star. Everything else was obscured by the cloud of soot and dust that was always in the air. Through the center of the city ran an enormous open sewer, into which all the filth of the streets flowed. It was called the Thames, and it also carried all of the foreign trade which made London the wealthiest city in the world. 

London was a place of great enterprise, science, and culture. It was also filthy, cruel, and pitiless. If you ran out of money or health, London would simply grind you under her heel and leave you to die in the street or in prison. But, unlike Empyrean Hall, at least London was honest about not caring about you. Everyone was locked in an honestly evil struggle to survive, clawing over each other to avoid being at the bottom, where people starved. 

Crowley was twenty-six years old. He had disfiguring facial scars. He worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week. He only drank alcohol and tea. He was not as literate as he pretended to be. He was an unrepentant sodomite. He dressed more expensively than he could easily afford. He had a plan to make himself wealthy one day. In short, he was an ordinary Londoner. 

For a clever man, London could be a place of opportunity. And Crowley was a clever man. He had remade himself in London. A few years ago, he'd had a very good idea, an idea that was ahead of its time. An idea worth taking on debt for. And he had made that idea a reality. Anthony Crowley had invented the Devil's Carriage. 

The Devil's Carriage was a low priced carriage service for those who had little money and little time and weren't overly concerned with preserving life and limb. It was a two-wheeled gig, of the sort that gentlemen in the countryside used for traveling at ludicrously unsafe speeds. It had a comfortable bench with a backrest and low sides, like a sofa, and an awning that could be put up to keep the weather off. The Devil's Carriage had been altered so that the driver, instead of riding seated on the two-person bench, could stand on the luggage rack behind the awning and drive from there. This made room for at least two passengers. The awning was fixed in an upright position, and the reins went over the top of it, through two little rings that Crowley had had affixed to one of the bars. 

A two wheeled gig could dart in and out of traffic, going places that a ponderous four wheel carriage couldn't. Granted, as with all gigs, there was always the danger of being overturned, but that had never yet happened to Crowley. (Although it must be admitted that both wheels weren't constantly in touch with the road.) The driver of the Devil's Carriage needed to be strapped to a T-shaped bar that was attached to the luggage platform, lest he slide off of the platform and fall into the street to be run over. On rainy days, the platform was particularly treacherous, but Crowley had fashioned raised ledges at the sides of it, so he'd have something to keep his feet from slipping all the way off, and he could lean against the T-bar in the back to rest his feet. So far there was only one Devil's Carriage in the whole of London and there was only one man willing to drive it. 

Crowley didn't see himself as a madman; he saw himself as a visionary. He had gone into debt to create the Devil's Carriage, and he was absolutely certain that it was the wave of the future. Some day, he was sure, there would be an entire fleet of Devil's Carriages. Crowley would be the boss of dozens of men who all balanced on platforms to drive two-wheeled carriages through the streets of London. 

There was no arguing with the economics of the Devil's Carriage. Every year, London's population grew, and the traffic grew. Every year, travel through Central London became slower. The Devil's Carriage could bypass traffic jams. Its two wheels meant that it could turn in place. On a good day it could collect twice as many fares as a normal carriage in the same amount of time. It only needed one horse, not two, which meant less grain and lower stable fees. And it was fun to dart through the slower traffic. Riding in the Devil's Carriage had already become a rite of passage among a certain class of thrill-seeking young men. For those who were running behind schedule and willing to make a proverbial bargain with the Devil to get to their destination on time, it was the perfect conveyance.

Riders of the Devil's Carriage could have any number of motivations for wanting to get to their destination (or perhaps away from their starting point) quickly, and Crowley found that it was best not to speculate. He was working on developing a regular clientele of well heeled gentlemen who wanted to be transported to and from certain private houses quickly. He also offered the fastest cross-town package delivery service in London. 

It was Bentley who made the whole thing work. Crowley used other horses too, (a horse could only work half as many hours as a man) but he owned Bentley, and she was the only horse that was bold enough and fast enough to unlock the Devil's Carriage's full potential. She could do wonders, dodging in and out between carriages and carts and pedestrians. 

The Devil’s Carriage was a brilliant plan. And if it weren’t for the famine, the utter unavailability of grain for man or beast, and the lack of middle class customers due to the famine, it would have been a very successful business. 

***

It was nine o'clock on an evening in late September of 1816, at the beginning of an autumn that felt more like winter, in the Year Without a Summer, the year that Crowley had become a widower. A half hour ago, Crowley had come into the stable after thirteen hours of standing balanced on a swaying platform. He had used three horses in the course of the day, and his knees and ankles had acquired a worrisome ache that he knew would not disappear by morning. Crowley was seriously considering putting stable bandages on his own legs after he was done putting them on the horse. But the pain was worth it. After many weeks of long days he had nearly finished working off his debts from the trip to Oxfordshire.

The long days had been hard on his body, but they'd prevented him from feeling as much loneliness as he might have otherwise. He’d lost count of the days since his wife's death, but it wasn’t because each new day didn’t hurt. It was just that he’d never been good at keeping track of time. The point was, as long as he filled his days with work, he was able to keep himself from weeping too much. 

Crowley finished putting the stable bandages on the dun gelding, brought water and hay to Bentley and the other horse that he'd driven today, washed his gig, cleaned his tack, and then headed to the office to settle up for the day.

"Letter arrived for you today, Mr. Crowley," said Mr. Wright. "It came from Oxfordshire. Your cousin writing with news, perhaps? Shall I read it for you?"

Crowley shook his head. He took the precious letter and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. Then he went out to the yard, pumped a bucket full of water, brought it inside, and smartened himself up. He shaved his entire face, heedless of the common fashion for sideburns. He bathed as best he could with the one bucket of cold water. Then he walked a half-mile on aching legs, through lamp lit streets, then down some darker roads that hadn't yet been furnished with the new gas lamps. He ducked into an alley and through a yard and then to the back door of a public house. 

A tall and sturdy young man answered the door with a lamp in his hand. He held it up to Crowley's face, then his features split into a smile. 

"Constance," he said. "Go on upstairs. We'll tell the Queen Mother you've arrived."

Crowley climbed up to the first floor, past muffled sounds of thumping and groaning. He went up to the second floor and opened the door to the room where his frock was kept. He bent down and extracted a wooden chest from under a bed; he pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked it and checked to see that everything was there, exactly as he’d left it. 

Crowley took off his coat and pulled the letter out of it and set the letter on the corner of the bed. Then he slipped out of his mourning clothes and into a soft cotton shift. His hands worked automatically as he put on his stays and stuffed them with padding to give himself a bosom. Then he put on a fashionable white cotton dress with puffed sleeves. It was a bit tricky to do it up by himself, but he managed. He tied a green satin ribbon under his ersatz bosom and slipped into house slippers. The hair was a trick to do. His hands weren’t cooperating. Too many hours of holding the reins in the cold. He was running late, but he refused to show up at court for the first time after all these weeks looking a mess. Because people would talk. And then they might sympathize. And if they did that, it would ruin half of the point of the evening. 

He was going to show up, as his other self, and be merry and slightly cattish and then, when everyone was distracted by the normal distractions of the club, he could pull one of the other girls aside and ask for help with the letter. And whatever was written in it, no matter what it was, he was not going to fall apart. He was going to be dignified. He was going to accept his new reality.

Crowley scowled at the girl in the mirror. Her eyebrows were a mess. Her chignon looked more like a lopsided knot and her copper curls were lifeless. Maybe after his hands warmed up a bit, he could try to touch up the hair. He wrapped a towel around his shoulders and pulled out his box of makeup. This was the last step, and then he could leave his sorrow behind and finally be someone who wasn’t constantly struggling through a mental fog or worrying about his son or courting bankruptcy. He could finally be . . .

“Constance!”, said a familiar voice. “There you are. Welcome back.”

Crowley turned around and saw a tall person wearing an old fashioned gown with panniers and long trailing sleeves. She wore heavy makeup, large pieces of glittering jewelry, and an enormously high grey wig. She ducked her head to get through the door and then tilted her head. 

“Constance?”, she said. “What’s the matter?”

Then, somehow, Crowley found himself enfolded in her arms, clutching his unopened letter, and blubbering about Bess and Adam and Aziraphale. 

The Queen Mother took the letter from his limp hand. She led him into the hall and then unlocked the door to her own private room and ushered him in and set the letter on her desk. He stumbled towards her enormous double wide bed and sat down on it. She pulled off her heavy wig to reveal a short man's haircut. The Queen Mother carefully set the wig down on a stand, and then sat down on the bed next to Crowley and pulled him into a hug while Crowley recounted all of the horrible events from the moment that Bess's labour pains had begun all the way to when he returned to London without Adam. And, when he was done, it was all just a little bit further away, and he was in the present moment, feeling wrung out and not a little embarrassed. 

"And that's the first letter about your son?", said the Queen Mother, "May I?"

Crowley nodded. 

The Queen Mother got up and walked over to the narrow desk where she did her accounts for the tavern. She picked up a letter opener, opened the wax seal, and read aloud:

_"C--_

_In accordance with our agreement, I have made my first quarterly visit._

_I can report that Adam is plump and healthy. He grasped my fingers with great strength and tried to ingest the button of my waistcoat. I took this as evidence that he has inherited his father's tendencies to question my sartorial choices. My admonitions to him that he should know his place were completely ignored, as I expected, based on his lineage._

_Adam is adored by his older sister, and by his adoptive parents. He has as cheerful and pleasant a home as could be imagined. The family is well stocked with meat and eggs, though bread is unavailable for them as is true for most everyone._

_I delivered three pounds, together with two baby gowns that used to belong to one of my cousins. You'll be proud to know that I stole them from the nursery._

_Your Servant In Matters of Malfeasance and Mischief,_

_A”_

The Queen Mother read the letter aloud three times before she returned it to Crowley. He sat on her bed, running his fingers under the words and repeating them aloud to memorize them. She watched him closely. 

"You're still far gone for her," said the Queen Mother. 

"Eeerrrgh," said Crowley, "It's just an arrangement. She's pretending my son is her bastard to keep her family from realizing how much she enjoys sucking on live sausage. S' a mutually beneficial arrangement, nothing more. We've both moved on."

"Hmph," said the Queen Mother. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. In the Beginning-- Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Anthony Crowley is a servant at Empyrean Hall and he aspires to live an elegant life as a gentleman's valet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a super short chapter on purpose.

**In the beginning:**

There was a great chain of being that ended, at the very pinnacle, with God Almighty. That's what Anthony had been taught from his earliest days. And when he was a child, he was told he had been born nearer the top of it than the bottom. Not the very top. The likes of him would never reach those dizzying heights. But, if he blackened the boots and polished them to a shine, if he kept the buttons on his little page uniform clean and neat, and if he spent his precious free hour every day bent over the primer book (though the letters often refused to resolve themselves into words), well, if he did these things, he would be rewarded. Elevated. Closer to God, with all the soft beds and well-fitting clothes and Tuesday afternoons off that that entailed. 

And so Anthony Crowley had worked hard. He was an energetic boy, and prone to making mistakes, but muck and filth didn't stand a chance against his brushes. Chamber pots were emptied. Messages were quickly transported through basement halls and up and down narrow staircases. In time, silverware became his responsibility and every piece of silver that passed through his hands was shined to a glorious reflectiveness. 

As the years passed, the butler, Mr. Paget, became more and more disappointed in Anthony's lack of progress with reading. "A gentleman's servant needs to be educated, so as to be able to entertain his master with little things that he reads," he said. And Anthony did his best, but his reading was so slow. The letters always seemed so jumbled. When he complained of how they seemed to move, the butler only told him to try harder. Written material was difficult. Accounts, which had numbers where every digit mattered, were all but impossible. The housekeeper thought his eyes were bad, but Anthony Crowley knew they weren't. He could see things near and far. He could see more of the stars of the Pleiades than any other person on the staff. 

So Anthony educated himself as best he could without reading. He listened carefully when the valets, finished with their own work, would deign to read books or newspapers aloud to speed the labours of the lesser servants. He let all the great long words sink into his soul. He was parched for stories, for knowledge, for dignity. And, though he was passed up for some promotions, because of his poor reading, by the time he was eighteen years old, Mr. Paget promoted him to fourth footman, and he was finally allowed to serve at the great table where the earl himself sat.

The gentry seemed like angels on earth to Anthony Crowley. The ladies laughed so prettily. They had perfect manners. They spoke of theatre and racing and literature and science. It was an education to just stand in the room with them. He listened carefully to the dinner conversations of his betters and did his best to learn. 

There were an awful lot of girls and young women in the house. They floated about in gossamer white dresses, or played ethereal tunes on the pianoforte, while an endless number of middle aged women chaperoned them, sitting in cushioned chairs, gossiping about distant relatives and marriage prospects. There were only two young men in the house, the heir, Mr. Theodore Fell, and his younger cousin Mr. Michael Sandalphon. Since there were three footmen ahead of him in rank, Anthony couldn't expect to become valet for either of these young men. He needed to look outside the house for the next step in his career. 

The many young women in the family attracted a lot of male followers who came and went in great exciting groups. During bustling weeks when the entire manor was full, Anthony Crowley was assigned to valet for some of these younger male guests, as they often didn't bring their own servants. These duties were in addition to his duties as footman to the household. Guests often didn't retire till after midnight. Washing, repairs, and ironing of their clothes then commenced. This was done at night in the crowded work rooms in the basement. Ironing space was limited, and the personal valets of high ranking men got their turn first. Anthony often fell asleep leaning against a wall, waiting in line, his temporary master's clothes in his lap. However late everyone worked, morning work for footmen still began at six am. 

Anthony Crowley was certain that he could find a way to become a valet to a wealthy young man, his difficulties with reading be damned. He was creative, he was ambitious, he had been in service since age eight. He'd work around his limits. He learned to tie the gentlemen's cravats in a dozen different styles. He learned to make witty conversation when it was wanted, and to make nervous young men feel confident and well-dressed. He'd stand there, straightening their cuffs, breathless with the glamour of it all and eager to please, a liquid sloshing around his head where his brains should be. Whatever they wanted they could have. If only one of them would see fit to hire him and promote him away from a life of polishing silver. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is a non-con scene. You can skip it. A brief description of what you missed will appear at the beginning of the following chapter.


	5. In the Beginning-- Morningstar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien Morningstar changes Anthony Crowley's life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Sexual Assault. Graphic. 
> 
> Next chapter begins with a two sentence sum-up, so you don't have to miss any plot if a sexual assault scene is too much. Or you can skip to the end notes, which also contain a brief sum-up.

  
  


Anthony Crowley busied himself with arranging the clothes on a long low table while the young lord made use of a chamberpot. Then, keeping his eyes carefully averted, he took the warm porcelain container, closed the lid, set it down in a corner of the room, and covered it with a folded cloth. Then he walked back to the table and picked up the stylish, high-collared, pure white, linen shirt belonging to Lord Lucien Morningstar, eldest son of the Marquess of Beaumot. 

"You're very tall," said Lord Morningstar.

"Thank you, sir," said Anthony. He knew that his height was a great advantage. Tall footmen were much sought after, and the fact that the future marquess was remarking on this might mean that he would consider making Anthony an offer. All Anthony had to do was be impeccable for the next six days. 

His lordship was lounging at his ease on the embroidered chair, completely nude, in the sprawling unselfconscious way that Anthony was accustomed to from young gentlemen. As Anthony tried to step past him so that he could stand behind and put the shirt over his head, Morningstar extended a lazy hand, blocking his way. Anthony Crowley was confused. So he stood still. The tip of Morningstar's finger was brushing the buttons of his livery coat. 

"Is that livery uncomfortable in this heat?"

Anthony blinked. It was very kind of his lordship to express such a concern. Which was obviously a good sign, a sign that the future marquess was more sympathetic to his servants than Anthony's current employer. Oddly, though, Anthony's throat had closed up, and he couldn't think of an appropriate reply. So he stood, holding the shirt. But the naked lord remained silent and still. And time and opportunity were passing by as Anthony Crowley stood frozen. 

'Come on, Anthony,' he thought to himself, 'Don't ruin your big chance. Speak. Say the right thing.'

"I'm quite comfortable. Your lordship is very kind to think of me." 

"I'm glad to hear that, Anthony," said the future marquess, and he stood up and stepped forward, towards Anthony Crowley. But he didn't raise his arms to let Anthony put the shirt on. He just looked Anthony over, cocking his head from side to side. And then, after a long silence, he lifted his arms and let Anthony slip the shirt over his head and adjust the starched collar. When Anthony straightened his cuffs, Morningstar's fingers accidentally brushed the inside of Anthony's wrist. Then the future marquess sat down and Crowley brought over the cotton and silk stockings, with their garters.

Carefully lifting the man's pale pink foot up off of the cushioned footstool, Crowley worked the first cotton stocking over the foot and carefully smoothed it up. As Crowley’s hands travelled up his calf, Morningstar made a small noise, but he didn't say anything, so Crowley interpreted that to mean 'carry on, good job,' and so he did, smoothing the stocking up to four inches over the knee and then doing the same thing with the silk stocking that went over the cotton one, and, finally, buckling the garter just above the calf. Then he looked up to see if Morningstar approved of the tightness, and the wealthy man was looking down at him with a strange smile and half-lidded eyes. Crowley caught himself almost biting his lip. But a good valet is confident, and so he lifted the other foot and slipped its two layers of stockings on as well, smoothing the silk up over the cotton layer and then securing the garter. 

Crowley's hands were shaking and his heart was pounding. Later, he would chastise himself for not understanding what his own body was trying to tell him, but at that moment, as he was bent over, carefully closing the fiddly little buckle, his only thought was to make sure that this second leg was done equally neatly to the first one. 

"You have a pretty face," said Morningstar. 

"Cuff-links and fobs," replied Crowley, and he jumped up like a jack-in-the-box and ran to the table to grab the box from which his lordship would choose his accessories. 

But when he opened the box for Morningstar to inspect, Crowley realized, to his horror, that he was standing a half-step further away from the young lord than he ought to be. Morningstar was looking up at him with a disappointed expression, and then his lordship took Crowley's wrist and tugged him and suddenly Crowley was stumbling off balance, and with one hand full of the long wooden lid, and the entire box of heavy jewelry balanced on the other forearm, and in his desperation to keep the box of precious things level so that its contents wouldn't spill, he found himself in danger of falling against the future marquess. 

After the most mortifying gyration of limbs, somehow, he managed to land with one knee on the foot stool, with none of the jewelry spilled, and without laying a hand on Morningstar. 

"My apologies Mr. Morningstar," said Crowley, and his ears were burning and there was a thrumming sound in them as he realized that he'd just ruined the best opportunity for advancement that he might see in years. 

"Not to worry," murmured Morningstar. But Crowley's heart was still pounding and he realized that he was staring directly at the drape of fabric between the future marquess's akimbo thighs, and that his lordship's long shirt was pleated and tented in a most immodest way, and Crowley's jaw dropped involuntarily and he turned his eyes toward the rug as his racing mind desperately tried to find the dignified way to right this whole terrible situation. 

Then suddenly a hand had caught his chin and Morningstar was stroking Crowley's cheek with his thumb. The thumb traced along the line at the bottom of Crowley's lip. "Pretty mouth, too."

And time stopped. Crowley felt like his thoughts were racing, but there was some rushing sound in his ears that prevented him from hearing what those thoughts were, and the arm which was balancing the jewelry box full of gem-studded silver and gold, was starting to shake. 

"Put that box down," said Lord Morningstar.

And Crowley did. He put the lid on, and, with shaking hands, he set the precious box down on the carpet, using the pattern of the carpet to make sure that it was in perfect alignment with the chair. And when he turned his head to face Morningstar, he realized that the future marquess had hiked up his linen shirt, and Crowley’s face was a handsbreadth away from a fully erect prick. 

Time seemed to warp so that sometimes Crowley could hear the time pass between his heartbeats and other times time would speed up so fast that he felt like he was jumping from one discontinuous moment to the next. There were unexpected sensations that didn’t all connect together: His powdered wig knocked off his head. A warm pressure at the back of his neck, words that seemed to come from the other side of a metal pipe, a thumb pressing on his lower teeth, a bitter taste like lye on his tongue. At one point he started choking and coughing and there was a gentle hand on his shoulder and a tone like the stable hands used with the horses. Now the hands were in his hair, trapping his head completely and making escape impossible. He felt himself to be floating outside of his own body, distantly aware that his mouth was touching another man's privy organ but mostly, acutely, aware of the feeling of the carpet under his knees and how it wasn't nearly as soft as it ought to be and how he could feel the nap of it through the wool of his livery breeches.

There was large discontinuity, and then Crowley became aware of hearing his own heaving breaths, while feeling the future marquess’s hand still tangled in the hair on the crown of his bowed head. He was kneeling, sitting on his heels, before Morningstar; his torso was bent forward and his arms were wrapped around each other. His whole body was wracked with trembling. His cheeks were wet. His mouth was full of the man's spend and he could neither spit it out nor bring himself to swallow it. 

"Hush," said Morningstar. "There's a good fellow, Anthony. Time to pull yourself together. You still need to get me dressed for dinner."

Crowley heard a soft whimper coming from his own throat. He found his pocket handkerchief and mopped his face with it; he spat what he could into it, licked the cloth with his tongue, then found a dry corner of it and blew his nose. He tucked the befouled cloth back into his pocket and put on his wig. Then he picked up the box of the future marquess’ jewelry, used both hands to take the lid off and set it on the floor and, again with both hands, held the open box up in front of Morningstar, who hummed as he poked at the contents. 

"Gold tonight, I think," said he. And he pointed to the cufflinks that he preferred. 

Crowley set the box on the floor, and, still kneeling, threaded the first set of cufflinks though their holes. Then he picked up the second set.

"Not those, Anthony," said Morningstar. "We need them to match the ones on the right side."

Crowley opened his mouth to apologize, but his entire mouth was too dry to make any words.

"That's quite all right," said Morningstar.

In the end, his lordship did most of the buttoning of his own breeches, and Crowley could only tie the simplest possible knot in the cravat, crying as he realized that every footman who served at dinner would see this public display of his failure as a servant. Morningstar lent him a fresh handkerchief to mop at his face again. And then, as the man who had just assaulted him inspected himself in the mirror, Crowley mechanically folded up the unneeded clothes and put them away. When Crowley bowed to take his leave, Morningstar gave him a guinea.

As the gold coin fell into his hand Crowley felt time start up again. He closed the door of Morningstar's room, walked down the hall, through the narrow servants’ door to the back stairs, and descended. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien Morningstar, a visiting nobleman, takes advantage of Crowley when Crowley is supposed to be dressing him. Morningstar forces Crowley to perform oral sex, using social manipulation and physical force. Then he gives Crowley an over-large tip, and makes him dress him and serve him at dinner as if nothing happened.


	6. In the Beginning-- The Angel Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is disfigured and cast out of the Hall. He despairs. But then an angel arrives and he finds reason to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter, a houseguest, Lucien Morningstar, forced young Crowley into performing oral sex. He gave Crowley an overgenerous tip, and forced Crowley to dress him and serve him at dinner as if nothing had happened.

TW: serious injury, blood and stitches

The next time it happened, the guest was closer to his own age, there was more kindness, and Crowley understood that he was free to refuse. He didn't refuse. Over the next few months, it happened several times more. Crowley began to know the signs to look for that let him know that extra services might be wanted, and, as the years passed, he learned to choose his opportunities, or evade them, more or less as he wished. Some of the young lords would stay at Empyrean Hall for a week or more and many of these were kind enough to see to Crowley's needs as well. The part of Crowley's mind that thought about what he was doing with these men rationalized his actions by linking them to ambition or the desire to get a good tip, but that wasn't the entire truth. 

The truth was that Crowley was drawn to this particular vice. He knew that sodomy was illegal, and that men were hanged or pilloried or for it. The pillory scared him the most. He had heard of men blinded and maimed in the pillories. It was dangerous for a man in service to seek a sexual partner from among his peers, when free hours were almost non-existent and doors couldn’t be locked. So if there was an element of exploitation in his relations with wealthy men, there was also a bit of a trade. The wealthy men could lock their bedroom doors with impunity, and they could provide the excuse for Crowley’s lost time. And there was always the possibility that if he impressed one of these wealthy men enough, he might enter into that man’s service, and protection, as his valet. 

***

The news of the heir apparent's death reached below stairs on the day of Crowley's twenty-second birthday. The day had started out as an exciting one for Crowley because it was the first birthday that hadn't been marked by the alteration of his livery. 

"Well," said Miss Device, who made all the livery for the servants, "You could hardly grow any taller, dear, and your shoulders are as wide as they are going to get." 

"Slim and tall is just the look for a footman," said Mrs. Potts, the housekeeper. She was an especial friend of the seamstress. Both of the ladies were fond of Crowley. But not in the simpering way that the young maids were fond of him. Nor in the covetous way that some of the male houseguests expressed their fondness. These two ladies had a more matronly way about expressing their admiration of his looks, and so Crowley felt comfortable basking in their praise. Slim and tall, he was. It felt nice to be admired. 

As they discussed his clothing, the ladies shared a rumor that the second footman might be leaving soon, which meant that Crowley finally had an opportunity for advancement. His red hair and his poor reading were marks against him, but Crowley was the hardest working of all of the young men, and the housekeeper and the seamstress both favored him for the promotion. He got the distinct impression that they felt they had a particular kinship with him. It was nothing that Crowley dared speak aloud. But, still, he noticed that, even though she was more than entitled to her own room, Mrs. Potts shared with Miss Device. The official excuse was that the enormous number of maids that were required for a household with nine young misses in it meant that all female members of staff, even the most highly ranked, needed to double up in their rooms. So it didn’t necessarily mean anything. But, yet, it had given Crowley the hopeful idea that, some day, if he made valet or butler in some great house, he might get a room of his own, with a door he could lock, and he might be able to share that precious privacy with a companion of his own choosing.

As Crowley was contemplating his career prospects, a panting young man burst into the room and told Mrs. Potts and Miss Device that the butler wanted an urgent word with both of them. Twenty minutes later, the entire staff was assembled belowstairs. 

"There has been an accident,” said Mr. Paget. “Mr. Theodore Fell has been thrown from his horse and killed on a hunt in Yorkshire.”

The entire room gasped. Few of them had liked the pompous young heir, but his death could mean a re-shuffling of ranks among them. 

"A mourning period will be observed for the entire household for at least the next three months," said the butler. "Ladies will receive their mourning costumes from Miss Device directly after this meeting. Men will receive theirs at eleven o'clock. Mrs. Potts will direct the house maids in dressing the house for mourning. Ladies’ maids are responsible for dressing all the girls in the household in mourning. All their lessons for the next month are cancelled, except for drawing and Latin. Michael Sandalphon is the new heir presumptive; his late cousin's valet will now serve him, and no other staffing changes are yet foreseeable."

Crowley spent the rest of the meeting floating around in his own thoughts. The death of the heir reduced his chances for promotion drastically. First, it meant that there was now only one young man in the household, and so less need of manservants in general. Second, the mourning period would mean that the family might not attend the season in London, or might have an attenuated presence there. Crowley had been hoping to be taken to London for the first time this year. London was full of parties, where he could look to find his next employer.

"After the mourning period is observed, we may reasonably anticipate the announcement of an engagement between Michael Sandalphon and the earl's daughter, Miss Uriel Fell," concluded the butler. 

Crowley was an ambitious man, and, as he collected his black armband, he set his sights on that future wedding as the time to catch the attention of some young lord, and make his case. He had his plan, and he was going to execute it.

But Crowley's plan was not to come to pass. 

Just three weeks after the death of the heir, Crowley was standing at attention in the dining room, serving a late luncheon to the entire family. The family had just concluded a very long visit with a half-dozen very sombre looking solicitors. The family was uncharacteristically silent, and, then, suddenly, all of the women, including the earl's sister, the Lady Katherine Sandalphon, burst into shrieking and screaming. The girls joined in and they all shouted over each other: 

". . . expected to vacate for this unknown boy!?!"

" . . . suspicious that the boy's never been even heard of until the funeral . . ."

" . . . I'm not willing to marry some ignorant country cousin . . ."

" . . . plot by his meddling spinster sisters . . ."

" . . . not giving up our estate without a fight . . ."

" . . . defend our Michael's claim . . . "

"SILENCE!" Gabriel Fell spoke. "Our only path is to bring this boy into the family and complete his education. We may then marry him to one of the girls." 

Lady Sandalphon spoke up: “I'm not sacrificing one of my nieces to a farmer's son because you are too much of a coward to fight."

"It is written in the entail," replied Gabriel. "And I am bound to follow what is written. We must all get used to hearing the name Aziraphale."

At the moment, the Ming flower vase from the table went flying inches past Crowley's head. It wasn't personal. It wasn't even aimed at him. The one who threw it thought as little of him as she would of a lamp or a tree. When it exploded off the wall behind him, his rigid training meant that he barely reacted when his face was struck from the side by the shards that bounced off the wall.

He didn't realize it had happened because the pain didn't come all at once. The sound of the explosion had actually hurt his eardrum quite a bit, and the shock of that and the ringing in his right ear made him quite confused. Though he could still hear the shouts of the women of the household, he couldn’t make out the words. They were very close by, but the dizziness made the sound of their voices seem far away. He started to go in and out of awareness, but he was well trained, and even though the room was spinning a bit, he stood straight and tall, his instincts saving him from disgracing himself by drawing attention to himself. 

It wasn't until he'd been bustled below stairs that Crowley even realized that the wetness on his face and neck wasn't the water from the vase after all. Soon he was sitting on a stool in the lower hall, leaning against the wall, with all of the upper servants clustered around him.

When Crowley turned his face to show the damage, the butler cursed. It was the first time Crowley had ever heard the man curse. Mr. Paget reached for his own flask and, in an unprecedented turn of events, held it to Crowley's lips. 

"Have as much as you want lad," he said. "Drink up." It was whiskey. Crowley had tasted whiskey before, but this stuff was different. It was smooth, buttery, delicious. It hurt to move his mouth, but he gulped it down, and then he was allowed some more. As much as he wanted. 

Things went a bit hazy after that. Crowley found himself lying on his side on a bed in the hall, with his eyes closed, and voices all around. Someone had to hold his head still to keep him from pulling away as the seamstress yanked the shards of porcelain out of his head with pliers and tweezers. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the breathing of the crowd in the hallway. 

". . . utterly furious," the steward was saying, "Lady Sandalphon’s disappointment in the change in expectations around the inheritance is a poor reason for her to ruin a handsome footman."

Crowley smiled with the half of his mouth that didn’t hurt to move. He hadn't known that he was handsome. Bright red hair was hardly a thing to recommend him. Especially now that wigs for servants were going out of fashion. But he was handsome after all. That was excellent news. He drifted off to sleep, dreaming of his bright future. A handsome valet in a great house. Winters in London. Lovely beautiful London. 

And then he awoke to the sounds of voices. One of the voices was one he didn't know: a male voice, an authoritative one. "Here you go lad," the voice said. Something leathery was suddenly in his mouth. He choked and tried to spit it out, but there was a hand at his jaw, pushing the leather strip back in. "Bite down, and try to keep very still," said the authoritative voice. "It will turn out better looking that way." 

He did hold still. Crowley held his head still even though his legs were shaking from the pain, even though his eyes were stinging from the blood. 

In the end, it didn't matter how still he had held. 

“I could have done a better job myself,” said Miss Device, as she applied a poultice and bandages. “It’s pulled open again at the bottom. Doctors never know how to stitch.”

“Is it going to scar?”, asked Crowley 

“You’ve been marked,” she replied. “As to what that will mean for your future, I can’t tell. Perhaps we can read your cards after the family leaves for London.” 

The day that the bandages came off, and Crowley entered the servants' dining room, the room went silent. All the maids gathered around to stare.

"It's not that grisly," said one of the maids, at last. "I knew a fellow whose nose got cut off. That was worse."

"I think it's rather rakish," said another, "Looks like a snake, and here," she pointed at the pendulum shaped divot, "It’s the shape of a snake's head." 

“Does that mean he’s cursed?”

The senior servants entered the room, and everyone fell silent. Breakfast was eaten, and nothing more was said about the scars. When the meal was done, Mr. Paget called Crowley over. The butler led Crowley above stairs for the first time since the accident. Crowley walked behind Mr. Paget and stood outside while the butler went into Lord Gabriel's larger study. He stood straight, hands at his sides, as he always did. And he waited. Then the door opened and he was shown in. 

Lord Gabriel Fell was seated at his desk. Michael Sandalphon, Miss Uriel Fell, and Lady Sandalphon were seated on chairs. The steward was there as well. Crowley walked in and stood at attention. There was a muffled gasp from one of the women. 

"Anthony," said Lord Fell.

"Sir," replied Crowley. 

"Have him face towards the windows," said his lordship. The butler raised an eyebrow and Crowley turned so that his injury was clearly visible. And he stood, stock still, while his employers stared at the red criss-crossed scars that ran from his temple all the way down to his jaw.

"Come here, Anthony," said Gabriel Fell. "Lean down." He did and his jaw was grabbed as if he were an animal at a fair. His face was turned this way and that to catch the light. 

Crowley let himself be manhandled, staring at the wall just off to the side of his employer. 

"They will fade in time, my lord," said the steward. "The doctor assures me that in a few years, the red color will turn to silver."

Gabriel Fell made a tsking noise. The air of it bounced off Crowley's cheek. "It is such a shame. He was very tall and well-formed." He addressed his sister, the Lady Katherine Sandalphon. "I'm very disappointed in you, Kitty. See what your temper has done? You've ruined a perfectly good servant after fourteen years of training." And then he addressed himself to Crowley. "Anthony, how is your vision? Are you still able to see out of both eyes?"

"Yes, sir." 

"Could have him assist with accounts and orders and such," said Gabriel to the butler. 

"I'm afraid that Anthony has always struggled with reading and writing," replied Mr. Paget. 

"Hmmmm," said Gabriel Fell. "The stables then. Thank you Anthony. Wait outside."

***

"In the stables?!", cried Crowley. "I'm not a stable boy. I belong above stairs. I've got a bright future. I'm going to be a valet and go to London. Let me speak to Lord Fell again."

"I think you've said enough to Lord Fell," said the butler. "You're lucky to still have a place at all after that performance." 

"But I've done nothing to deserve a demotion," said Crowley. "My work is impeccable, you've said so yourself."

"I'm afraid it can't be helped," said Mr. Paget. "Your appearance is too shocking to the ladies, and it would upset Lady Sandalphon to see you above stairs."

"Fourteen years, I've served, and now you expect me to muck out stables!", said Crowley.

"Bad luck can befall anyone; you need to make the best of it. You’ll report to the stableman immediately. Miss Device will give you your new uniform."

"But-- my room." 

"Your possessions will be brought to the stables. There is a dormitory above the carriage house."

***

The stables were a quarter of a mile from the big house. They were a self-contained world with their own kitchen, servants’ parlour and dormitories. No leftover alcohol or delicacies from the Fell’s dining table ever made their way down here. Except for the cook, scullery maid, and dairy maid, everyone was male, and the ladies didn’t join the men and boys for dinner. Meals consisted of simple country foods like pies and puddings and stews. Everyone wore overalls for most of the day, and dinner conversations consisted of endless discussions about animal ailments and diet, relieved by occasional filthy jokes that were generally animal husbandry themed. Sometimes, for variety, someone would tell an adventurous tale about a person narrowly avoiding being maimed by an animal. 

From his very first hour at the stables, Crowley smelled constantly of excrement. The yard complex contained more than just the horses. There were also cows, pigs, sheep, and poultry. The dung of each animal had a distinctive smell, and Crowley smelled like all of them, because he spent all of his days shoveling it. In the first two weeks, he couldn’t even fully scrub the smell off his hands because he might burst the blisters that had formed on his hands, from holding the shovels and pitchforks.

The animals sensed his resentment of them, and they punished him for it with teeth and hooves and powerful shoves. At the end of his second week Crowley began developing bruises inside his original bruises. He begged the animals for a truce, and began to try to figure out their ways. Though less intelligent than the humans he had previously cared for, some of the animals were capable of appreciating good treatment. The horses, most particularly, were more appreciative than any of the Fells had ever been. And, while Crowley’s new human companions were not sympathetic to his complaints, the horses were very patient about listening to his sorrows. 

Crowley was in his seventh month at the stables, when the news came that the new heir would finally be arriving. The stableman, Mr. Hales, had just brought in a newly purchased six year old grey gelding.

"Handsome," said Crowley. 

"You'll be in charge of keeping him that way," said Mr. Hales. "The light coloured coat will teach you to keep a horse properly clean. And this one won't kick you, no matter what foolish mistake you make. He is going to be the temporary riding horse for the new heir, and then we’ll give him to the young ladies."

"The new heir?"

"Mr. Aziraphale Fell. Nearly eighteen years old. Some poorer branch of the family that nobody has heard of. Young man apparently spent his childhood reading instead of riding, but this horse is so gentle and slow you could put a baby on him."

Two days later, on a beautiful spring day, Crowley found himself standing in front of the patio of the great house itself. He was standing between the eight year old stable boy and a fourteen year old groom, staring across the way at the house servants. Between them, on the patio, Lord Gabriel Fell sat, along with his sister, the Lady Katherine Sandalphon. Surrounding them were a half-dozen elderly and middle aged women whose white and grey dresses were draped with colorful sashes and scarves. The young people were standing. The most important of the young people on the patio were Sandalphon’s son Michael and Gabriel's middle daughter, Uriel. Surrounding them were a dozen beautiful bare armed girls in thin white muslin gowns. Crowley could hardly believe that he used to admire those girls. They no longer looked like angels to him, but like deadly ghosts. 

Crowley stood there in the ranks of the stablehands, watching the carriage wind its slow way through the apple orchards and up the hill. The carriage contained a new enemy. Coming up the road was the young heir whose very existence had sent Lady Sandalphon into such a rage that she'd thrown the vase that disfigured him. This Aziraphale Fell was responsible for his downfall, and Crowley was in charge of keeping his horse free of mud and dirt. The gentry could only treasure perfect things. Broken and dirty things were put into storage. Broken and dirty things like Crowley, who had an enormous and still-itchy scar on his face, a week-old bruise on his thigh where a mare had kicked his leg, and the smell of manure hanging around him like a miasma. 

The family descended from the patio at the last possible moment, and stood at the center of the ring of servants. The carriage pulled up, and the stableman went round to grab the bridle of one of the horses. A footman rushed to open the carriage door and unfold the little staircase. The carriage rocked and dipped and out peeked a very young man, little more than a youth. He had an open, delighted, look on his face as he emerged from the carriage. He paused on the top step of it, with his hand on the open door frame. When he smiled down at all of the gathered people, it was as if a sunbeam had landed on the estate. 

The young heir’s jaw dropped open like a child’s as he surveyed the grand house. His bright blue eyes danced over the high central dome of the Hall and the two smaller domes on the east and west wings. His eyes travelled back and forth across the roofline, taking in the delicate stone lacework parapets and the ornate pinnacles. As he admired the stonework angels above the main entry and the elaborately carved pilasters that framed it on each side, Mr Fell’s mouth opened and closed in comically silent little expressions of wonder. He brought his free hand to his cheek and looked at the stone cherubs at the edge of the patio and then looked again at all of the staff, as if to say 'Have you seen all of these wonderful things?'

As Aziraphale Fell stood on the top step of the carriage, rejoicing over his new home, Crowley took the opportunity to look him over. Fell was short and very pale. He had a pretty face, with plump cheeks and the beginnings of laugh lines under his eyes. He wore an old fashioned light blue tailcoat with fabric covered buttons and blue breeches and a waistcoat to match. There was actual lace around his wrists. He wore buckle shoes instead of boots and they showed off his pretty ankles. His excessively long white-blonde hair was gathered into an untidy queue with a light blue ribbon. The hair that had escaped the queue formed ringlets which bounced when he turned his head. He had no sideburns at all, either because he couldn’t grow them yet or because he wasn’t aware that they were what stylish young men wore. Crowley strongly suspected that it was the latter. He’d never in his life seen any gentleman under age thirty wearing a tricorn hat. 

When a few of the younger maids actually started to giggle at him, Mr. Aziraphale Fell finally seemed to remember his manners. He shook himself, closed his open mouth, adjusted his ridiculous lace cuffs, and descended the carriage’s little staircase with hopping bouncing steps. Seeing his family waiting for him, he clapped his hands together in excitement and fairly bounded towards them to introduce himself, a gamboling golden puppy. 

Crowley felt a sudden urge to scoop the young man up into his arms and carry him away from it all. To protect this golden creature from anything that might dim his light. It broke Crowley’s heart to see all of that innocence, purity, and joy guilelessly tumbling across the gravelled path towards the vicious family that ran this unhappy hall. 

When Mr. Aziraphale Fell’s cheerful bows to his newly met aunts and cousins were returned with coldness and stiff curtsies, the young man’s shoulders fell for a moment. Then he straightened himself up. Lord Gabriel Fell led the way into the house, and young Mr. Fell followed him, his feet tumbling over themselves, his sunshine self swallowed up by swirling clouds of stormy women in high waisted white dresses. He was borne away inside the great house.

Footmen hopped onto the tailboard at the back of the carriage to catch a ride around to the servants' entrance of the house. They would unload the luggage there and bring it up to the young man’s room. As Crowley would have done only a few months ago. How he longed to know what was in the young man's luggage. How he wanted to tend to those old-fashioned clothes, to brush them clean, to shake out their wrinkles.

"Anthony!", shouted Mr. Hales. "Stop staring off into the air. Head back to the yard and make ready to clean that carriage." 


	7. Riding in Carriages With Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take a moonlit ride.

  
  


It was an entire week before young Mr. Fell even came to visit the stables. In those seven days, Crowley washed the grey gelding six times. Just in case. He couldn't keep his own self nearly clean enough, but he made sure the horse, at least, was beautiful. Crowley's impulsive suggestion, to name the horse Ganymede, was relayed to the family by the stableman and they adopted the name. It suddenly seemed as if everything was going Crowley's way. He had been given complete charge of the care of the sweetest animal in the yard; the stablemaster seemed pleased with his progress and even said he'd make a horseman out of him. Crowley's life didn't have glamour anymore, but there was beauty, and a path for advancement. He felt hope rising in his heart again. 

And then, on the seventh day after he arrived at Empyrean Hall, Aziraphale Fell himself came walking into the stables. He was accompanied, or chaperoned, by his scowling cousin, Michael Sandalphon, the man who had all-too-briefly thought himself to be the heir. Michael gave his cousin a perfunctory tour of the stables, quickly naming the men and the horses. Then he stood at the edge of the stables and pointed at the pens of cows and sheep and pigs on the other side of the yard. When his own horse was brought, Michael leapt into the saddle and rode away, kicking his mare into a canter without even letting her warm up. 

Poor Aziraphale Fell drifted into the stable court and looked off, over the fence, to where Michael was disappearing into the distance. The stables were at the top of a gentle rise, and the grounds stretched out below, a great lawn that gave way to hedges and copses of trees and a pond. Mr. Fell looked so alone and small, just standing there at the fence watching the sheep mow the lawn. He looked a bit ridiculous too. He was wearing boots and deerskin breeches. His long hair was still tied up in a queue. Today his old-fashioned frock coat was a bright yellow and his waistcoat was a subtle paler yellow. These colors neither matched nor contrasted with his golden brown breeches. He looked like a bunch of mismatched pieces of the sun had come down to Earth and had put on a tricorn hat. 

Crowley sidled up beside him, and young Mr. Fell didn't even move; he just stared off into the distance, pensive and silent. Crowley leaned against the fence and watched Michael disappear down the hill. Fell stood there, his face slowly falling from pensive into some other expression, something sadder and lonelier. Which hardly seemed fair to Crowley. So he decided to talk to the young gentleman. 

"He's in a bad skin, then, isn't he?", said Crowley.

Fell nodded. "I suppose it must have been something I said. It's such a delicate situation. I've been trying so hard not to not give offence. But I don't seem to be succeeding."

"You, sir?", said Crowley. "Give offence? Naw. I don't think that's even possible."

"Really?", replied the young man. And his face lit up completely. He was suddenly the human incarnation of a warm sunny day. He turned his beautiful guileless face towards Crowley and smiled. "Oh thank you," he said. Then, upon looking Crowley over, he seemed to remember himself, and he seemed to be trying to compose his face. Perhaps he was aiming to look a little more stern or a little more haughty, as befitted the future master of a great house. But his face was clearly not used to being asked to produce such grave expressions, because his eyes started to crinkle at the corners.

"He really is most decidedly in a bad temper isn't he?", said Fell. And he giggled, which made Crowley smile for the first time in nearly a year. Crowley felt his cheeks rising up under his eyes, and he felt little pulls and tugs from the great scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. What was even more wonderful was that Mr. Fell was standing on his bad side, his disfigured side, looking up at him, and his eyes were not tracing the scar. The young heir was looking him over without pity or disgust or even curiosity. There was just pure joyous relief, as if he was a parched man who had just come up over a rise and was seeing a lake spread out before him. The poor fellow had probably been starved of human kindness this past week. 

"Would you like to ride?", said Crowley.

Fell's mouth dropped open. He blinked rapidly. He made a couple of shallow pants. "Uh. Whaa. Uh," he said. 

"Your horse," said Crowley. "I can get him ready for you."

"Uh," said Fell. He tongue darted out and touched his upper lip. "Y-yes. No. Err." He blew out a breath through pursed lips and looked off into the distance before he let his eyes slide back in Crowley's general direction. "Well," he said. "P-perhaps, we should get acquainted today. The, uh, the horse and I. I- yee-." 

All the stuttering nervousness in this newly minted aristocrat was completely adorable, and Crowley found his own chest suddenly growing very warm and fluttery. So he covered that up by bowing far more obsequiously than he really needed to. He threw out an arm in the direction of the stables.

"After you, sir," he said. 

***

When Aziraphale arrived back at the house that afternoon he happened to run into Lady Sandalphon in the atrium. 

"Good ride?" she said, looking him over in a way that made him suddenly very aware of his sweat-slicked face and his dusty clothes. 

"Um, yes," he said. And he found himself to be smiling in spite of her. "Such lovely grounds. I rather wished to get lost in them all. I wasn't ready to return at all."

She sniffed, much as if to remind him that she wouldn't be much fussed if he were to never turn up again. 

"I'll just, well, I'll just . . ." And then he tripped over the base of a column as he backed up. As he bounced back onto his feet, she surveyed him with disdain, as if he was an insect. He felt her eyes on him as he skittered under the archway towards his own wing of the building. But there was a certain buoyancy in his heart that made her contempt feel less awful than it usually did. When he sped around a corner and nearly knocked a maid onto her bottom, he giggled. Running into servants unexpectedly was a theme for today. Not only had he run into that handsome groom again this morning, he had also discovered that Anthony was in charge of Aziraphale’s own horse. Aziraphale could see himself coming to like horse riding a lot more than he had in the past. 

Back in his room, he started to loosen his sweaty cravat and then he realized that he had no idea what clothes he ought to change into. So, rather than inconveniencing the footman by simply picking out something at random, he pulled on the cord by the bedside, and then, thinking better of sitting on an embroidered chair with his dusty deerskin breeches, he leaned against the windowsill and amused himself by watching the scenery outside. 

And that was when he remembered that a portion of the path to the stables was actually visible from his window. Which was a very cheering thought. The path was too many yards away for him to truly indulge in his aesthetic appreciation for his servant, but if the handsome groom happened to pass by, it might add a little fuel to Aziraphale's imaginings. And what a young man imagined in his private moments need not be limited to what he could actually see, or even to what might be possible in his real life.

In real life, of course, nothing could ever happen between Aziraphale and a man who worked in the stables. It wasn't just the unlikeliness of his interest being returned or the impossibility of finding privacy, but also the vast difference in their stations on the estate. 

'That's right,' Aziraphale told himself firmly, 'You must uphold the dignity of your new station.' 

Just a few weeks ago, in his former life as the stepson of a gentleman farmer, Aziraphale could have formed a friendship with a groom and no one would have looked askance. But here at Empyrean Hall, probably a few words exchanged every day would be the limit of the acquaintance. The thought of this brought a lump to Aziraphale's throat. It had been so nice to feel, earlier today, like he might be on the verge of making a friend at this vast estate. 

Just as Aziraphale was considering the surprising loneliness of his new life, who should come riding into view but the very man that Aziraphale had been thinking of. Anthony was following behind the stablemaster, and they were both cantering. Anthony was riding a grey horse, a different grey, whose name, Aziraphale recalled, was Mercury. It might have been just his imagination, but from this distance, Anthony seemed a bit overwhelmed by his mount. And, as he watched them fly by, Azriaphale decided that there was no harm at all in taking pleasure in imagining the previously confident groom looking a bit discomfited. Every master must take some enjoyment from observing the travails and triumphs of his servants. It was perfectly natural. And it was almost like having friends. 

***

Over the next few months, Crowley got to see the pretty little heir almost every day. Lord Gabriel Fell had ordered that the future earl must have daily riding lessons. Six mornings a week, Crowley tacked up Ganymede, then Mr. Hales rode the gelding up to the big house so that he could personally teach the young lord. And then, a few hours later, Aziraphale would return Ganymede to the stables and say cheerful things to Crowley about the house or the grounds. 

“Did you know,” said Aziraphale. “That the little curved triangles between the arches in the entry hall are called ‘spandrels’? Ours are painted with pictures of angels to make the dome seem like part of the heavens. Don’t you find angels inspiring?”

That was an easy question to answer. “Yes sir,” said Crowley. “Absolutely.” 

Fortunately for Crowley, it looked like the daily riding lessons might continue indefinitely. The stableman reported that both Fell and his horse were indifferent students who seemed to resent being asked to go at any speed above a walk. As soon as the lesson was done, they would escape together and do a slow loop around the grounds. On these rides, Fell would let his animal just veer off the track to grab mouthfuls of grass, while he stared dreamily around at the pastures and follies. Crowley was soon tasked with exercising Ganymede three afternoons a week just to undo the damage to his training. 

"At least Mr. Fell is pleased with his horse," said Crowley. 

"You've turned cheerful, lately," the old stableman replied.

"Yes sir," said Crowley. 

"I didn't like you at the beginning," said Hales, "But now that we've gotten you broken to the work, you're starting to show an aptitude. I'm glad you've decided to settle down and make a life in the place where God has put you."

"Thank you, sir," said Crowley. This midsummer morning was warm and perfect, Mr. Fell was due to amble into the yard at any moment, and Crowley decided that, just for the moment, he could believe in God.

***

"Welcome back to the yard, Mr. Fell," said Crowley. "How did Ganymede enjoy his buffet?"

The beautiful young aristocrat turned a lovely shade of pink. "Kindness is never wasted," he replied. 

"We do feed him every morning," said Crowley. 

"Hmph," replied Fell. "Well, he prefers timothy and it just so happens that there is a lovely patch of it near the top of a pretty rise just south of the wood. We were both very happy to stop there." 

"Help you down sir?"

"Please."

***

Aziraphale was not a fast thinker. It was a constant disadvantage in dealing with his cousins and aunts and uncle. But that didn't mean he wasn't a perceptive person. He was an uncommonly sensitive young man, which made it very painful when he could read, in every fleeting facial expression, how very much his relatives loathed and looked down upon him. Every kind or cheerful thing he could think to say only made things worse, and so, after weeks of trying, he retreated into a kind of watchful silence. The only people he really talked to were his Uncle Gabriel and the two men who came to help him manage his greatly expanded wardrobe. So, when he wanted to learn more about the groom in whom he had taken an interest, he had only three people he could ask. Uncle Gabriel was too dangerous to talk to because he might detect the true nature of Aziraphale's interest in the groom. So that left the footmen. 

"That stablehand with the scars on his face," said Aziraphale to first footman James, a man ten years older than he. "Did you happen to hear about the accident that caused them?"

"I'm sure I can say nothing about it, sir," said James. But there was a tightening of his shoulders, and a tension around his eyes, and a slight paleness in his cheek that told Aziraphale that there was some dangerous or scandalous tale to be discovered. This was confirmed when James changed the topic immediately. 

"There you are, m'lord," said James. “Very dapper. The cut of this tailcoat suits you well."

"But it's so high in the front," said Aziraphale. "The waistcoat peeks out even when the coat is buttoned."

"Yes, sir," said James. "That's the fashion. Now, may I speak to you again about the possibility of a shorter hairstyle?"

When Aziraphale asked the fourth footman about the groom’s scars, the poor fellow started stammering and then he practically ran from the room. Yes. There was definitely a scandal of some sort. And that made Anthony the groom even more attractive. Perhaps he had been cut by broken glass as he leapt from his lover's window to escape her jealous husband. 

Aziraphale spent many hours contemplating the exact shape of Anthony's scars. He liked to trace his finger over his own face in imitation of the crisscrossed patterns of the groom’s scars. There were the lines near Anthony's temple (which were partially hidden by his auburn sideburns) and those on his clean shaven cheek, where the widest slash really only served to underline his strong cheekbone, and down to just above and to the side of his chin, where a slash ended in a red divot the shape of a snake's head. The divot was too wide and low to be a dimple but it gave Anthony a bit of a rakish look, as if he were constantly on the verge of smiling in a slightly toothy and dangerous way. 

***

Crowley was absolutely convinced that Mr. Aziraphale Fell was a good luck charm. It wasn't just that seeing the young lord's smile every morning made all the rest of Crowley's day worthwhile. It wasn't just that his youthful beauty had breathed new life into the rotation of sexual fantasies that Crowley indulged in during his rare private moments. No. Ever since Mr. Fell arrived at the Big House, all of Crowley's fortunes had dramatically improved. He was getting to be a better rider, for example. And the other grooms finally seemed to have accepted him as one of their own. On Mr. Hales’ day off, they’d taken him to a secluded little track behind the woods and given him the opportunity to learn that he enjoyed driving a high flyer with a fast team. Just the memory of that stupendously dangerous speed put a spring in Crowley's step for weeks afterwards, and he was eagerly looking forward to the next time the masters were all away and the horses needed "extra exercise". 

Most of the time, unfortunately, he had to go slow. One of Crowley’s jobs was to drive the little cart with the dairy goods and the eggs up to the kitchen of the big house every morning. And, every morning, even after the mornings grew dark and chilly, he looked toward the house and saw Mr. Fell standing there in his lit bedroom window. Crowley never waved; that would have been inappropriate. But he liked knowing that the young lord was watching him, like a guardian angel. 

***

The night his angel finally came to him was a chilly night in early October. The few people who were in the stable lodgings tonight had just finished a quiet supper. The driver and the head groom were both out driving this evening; the young ladies of the estate, with their chaperones, had required both carriages to head out to a harvest ball that was taking place two villages away. (The men who were driving them wouldn't return home till nearly sunrise, and then they would sleep for the morning, leaving everyone else with extra work around the barnyard.) The second groom and the stable hand had the night off; the stable boys had been sent to bed. The cook, the scullery maid, and the milkmaid were cleaning up in the kitchen. That left just Crowley and Mr. Hales, the stablemaster. They were resting before bed. 

Hales had put on his slippers and banyan and was staring into the fire with a glass of ale in his hand. Crowley was lounging at the table, playing a solitary card game. Then there was a knock at the door. When Crowley opened it, he saw the new fourth footman from the big house, a jumpy young man named Francis who still flinched every time he saw Crowley's face, as if scars were catching. 

"Yeah," said Crowley. "What?"

"Sorry," said the fourth footman, "But Mr. Fell has changed his mind and wonders if it might be possible for him to attend the ball tonight after all."

"Tell Mr. Fell," called the stableman, "That he would freeze, as we have no more closed carriages."

"His young lordship is most insistent," replied the footman. His eyes darted from side to side. And then, from the moonlit path behind him, came another voice.

"I'm sure that a few blankets would suffice to keep me toasty," said the voice. "And if a driver can bear the cold, surely I can as well. I'm made of stern stuff."

And there he was, the heir himself, stepping into the semicircle of yellow light cast from the open door. He must have walked all the way from the house. 

Crowley bowed and then stepped back to let the young lord enter the stable servants' little dining and sitting room. The stableman was already standing stiffly at attention. The stiffness was not just from formality. The old man's back often troubled him at the end of a day. 

"Mr. Fell, sir," said the stableman. "I truly wish I could accommodate you, but . . ."

"Couldn't I take the phaeton?", said Fell. He was dressed for a ball in his own fashion, with ruffles at his neck and wrists and his long white-blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail that was tied with a pale blue ribbon. He looked as if he had just stepped directly out of 1790. Even though he was a fresh faced eighteen year old, he dressed like a fussy old man. It was adorable and strange. 

"My lord," replied Mr. Hales. "The phaeton is a vehicle for two. You'd arrive at the ball without a manservant."

"Oh," said Fell. "I can do without my footman. You see, now that I've set my heart on attending, I won't let any obstacle stand in my way." The tiniest smile was twitching at the corner of young Fell's lips as he watched the old stableman clench his hands in frustration. Fell's eyes flicked to Crowley's face for just an instant, and Crowley felt a strange swooping in his belly. 

"I can drive the phaeton," said Crowley. "I'd be happy to, Mr. Hales. I've driven to Woodstock a dozen times, and with the moonlight, it will be as safe as daytime."

The stableman closed his eyes in a slow blink. Then he sighed his assent. He shrugged off his banyan and pulled on his coat and boots. 

"Wait here, m'lord," he said to Fell. Then Mr. Hales led Crowley out to the carriage yard. "If anything at all happens to the heir,” he said, “We’re both finished.” 

"I'll go very slow," replied Crowley. "The roads are good. We won't overturn."

And so, twenty minutes later, Crowley pulled out of the yard in a high four wheeled phaeton with the beautiful long-haired heir of Empyrean Hall by his side. He felt like a lord who was taking his lady wife out on a moonlit drive. 

Crowley kept glancing over at his passenger. In his own filthy mind, he had a fantasy about why Mr. Fell had engineered this very strange journey. Driving the horses at night turned out to be a trivial task, compared to the difficulty of keeping his own mind from going dangerously astray. Every time they passed by one of the enormous useless faux Greek temples that had been erected on the grounds, Crowley kept imagining that the young heir was about to say: 'Tuck the carriage in behind this folly and then you can bend me over the stone bench and nail me while Apollo looks on.'

The heir did not say anything like that at all. He was silent. He wrung his hands in his lap. The long tail of his near-white hair shone in the moonlight where it emerged from under the back of his ridiculous tricorn hat. He was so breathtakingly unconcerned with fashion. After five months at Empyrean Hall, he was still the same beautifully eccentric little creature that he had been at the start. They passed the gatehouse and Crowley hailed the gatekeeper and Fell did too. And now that he’d spoken aloud, something seemed to unlock inside Mr. Fell, and a cheerful waterfall of words began to tumble out of Fell’s little pink mouth. He prattled about the weather and the road, and then he asked a personal question. 

"How old are you, Anthony?", he asked.

"Twenty-three this month." replied Crowley. 

"Oh," said Fell. "And how long have you worked at the estate?"

"Since I was eight years old, sir."

"Have you any family nearby?", he asked. 

"None living," said Crowley. 

"I'm sorry to hear that you're alone," replied Fell. And he sounded genuinely sorry. Crowley needed to make a soothing little social grunt before the young man would continue talking. "I've six older sisters,” he said. “The youngest of them is five years older than me. I was quite the happy surprise, being born nearly five months after my father's death, when my mother thought she was done with childbearing." 

"Your sisters must have treasured you," said Crowley. He imagined young Mr. Fell being dressed up like a doll and carried everywhere in arms.

"Yes, they did," said the heir. And his voice broke a little. "Moving here has been . . . an adjustment. Although at least I've always been used to being surrounded by women.” He took a deep breath. “Well, I must confess, I've never been to a ball at all before. Have you?" 

Crowley replied without thinking: "I always love the servants' balls," he said. "And I never miss the harvest ball in the village. And I've served at balls at Empyrean Hall and Hickwell Manor."

"But surely they don't hire out a groom to serve at a ball at another house?"

"Uh," replied Crowley. And he was instantly saved by Fell from the necessity of coming up with a way to deflect the conversation. The fellow was courteous that way. 

"Mother disapproved of dancing," said Fell. "But with so many girls, she could hardly keep all dancing out of the house. My sisters taught me when Mother wasn't at home. I know a gavotte."

"Ah," said Crowley.

"Oh, is that not good?"

"Nobody dances the gavotte anymore," said Crowley. "S'not a thing. Quadrille is popular."

"Oh dear. I don't know how to dance quadrille."

"Lots of time they just do country dances," said Crowley. "You'll catch on quickly."

And so they made their way along the bright moonlit road, winding their way between the tall dark hedges on either side, with Mr. Fell talking cheerfully about his loving family, and Crowley enjoying the company of a pretty young lord and working hard to keep his mind, and the horses, out of the ditches. 

***

The ride to the ball was an utter disaster. Aziraphale had schemed for months to get himself alone with the attractive groom and, once he'd succeeded, he'd been an absolute coward, prattling on for forty-five minutes about his sisters. He'd completely wasted his only opportunity to figure out if the groom was the sort of man who might return his interest. There he had been, sitting next to a handsome man, on a beautiful moonlit night, and he had been so petrified by the very idea of engaging in carnal activities that he hadn’t done a thing. 

Now that he was at the ball, Aziraphale was hiding along the wall and looking around at the hundreds of well-dressed people, realizing that his footmen had been right and his hairstyle was completely out of date. Furthermore, he didn't know any of the steps of the dances. Three of his female cousins had just marched right past him without acknowledging him, and the one that was currently consenting to talk with him looked pained and embarrassed by his presence. She seemed to be glancing around to see if anyone would rescue her. Suddenly, the prospect of spending hours at this ball followed by an hour of riding home with family members who hated him seemed unbearable. 

"Excuse me," said Aziraphale, "I've left something in my carriage." And he turned on his slippered heel and ran into the night. 

***

Crowley wasn’t planning on staying the night at the ball. There was no sense in him keeping the horses standing around unnecessarily when Mr. Fell could just share a nice warm ride home with his family in one of the two carriages. But Crowley did feel a duty to at least check in with the other drivers and see if they wanted to trade places with him. Neither of them did, so Crowley headed back to the phaeton.

It had been a little disappointing to Crowley to discover that the pretty young heir hadn’t been scheming to get alone time with him, but it was just as well. Enjoying a few afternoons of connection here and there with gentlemen who were visiting the house was a very different thing from trying to carry on an affair with the young lord who was to be the future master of the house. The former was a slightly dangerous adventure. The latter could only end in disaster. 

At any rate, this evening had not been wasted. It had given Crowley a very solid memory of the exact scent of the young heir, which he could enjoy in his private fantasies tonight. And that was not a bad thing at all. 

Crowley was just heading back to the phaeton when he was nearly knocked over by Mr. Fell.

“Oh, thank goodness you haven’t left,” said the young lord. “Please take me home now.”

Crowley wordlessly helped Mr. Fell up into the carriage and tucked the blankets around his legs. Then he climbed aboard, released the brake, and clicked at the horses. He had a good idea of what had driven Mr. Fell out of the ballroom in under ten minutes, and he was mentally preparing to increase his level of hatred of Lady Sandalphon from a fiery inferno of hatred to the fury of a thousand suns, if he found out that she had publicly abused the innocent and kind-hearted creature that was seated beside him. 

They were a half mile down the road when suddenly Fell burst into tears. “I can’t seem to do anything right!”, he cried. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. You should be home in your warm bed and I’ve kept you out for nothing.”

“S’not nothing,” said Crowley. “It’s my place to serve you. Whatever you need.”

“I looked like a fool. They were all laughing at me.”

“Who?”, asked Crowley. 

“Everyone,” said Fell. “I could just feel it.”

“Not everyone,” said Crowley, “Just the cruel ones that aren’t worth a moment of your time. Now that they showed themselves for who they are, you know who you don’t want to bother with in the future.”

“I’m afraid no one will bother with me ever again,” said Fell.

“Oh, they will,” said Crowley. “Once they know the size of the fortune you’re heir to, they’ll be crawling back to apologize. But you’ll already know which ones of them are monsters. Because you were clever enough to attend your first ball in disguise. There was a king in Sweden who disguised himself as a commoner, to find the corrupt officials in his kingdom. Wise king, like you.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Aziraphale. “I’m beginning to think that perhaps you are the king in disguise.”

“Naw,” said Crowley. “I’ve just had the experience of being knocked down a few times and getting back up. You will too. You’ll figure out how to thrive in that world.”

And then the young heir turned fully to look at him. “I’m being terribly selfish,” he said. “Here I am crying over a little embarrassment when you’ve clearly recovered from far more painful injuries. I’m sorry for being so insensitive.”

“Wot?”, said Crowley. He couldn’t quite comprehend what his young master was talking about. Then he brought his hand up to the permanent gashes that Lady Sandalphon’s selfish tantrum had made in his face. “These?”, he said, “Don’t you worry about them, sir.” 

“Do they? . . . Do they still hurt?”, said Fell. And his voice was small. 

Crowley's heart started to hurt. Few of the servants had even asked after his pain, and most of them were just maids trying to gossip and get a story for their friends. And here was this wealthy lord genuinely caring about him. 

“Eehhhh, they pull a bit. Sometimes a little itchy,” he said. Mercifully, Mr. Fell didn’t ask where they’d come from. 

“I’m glad,” said Fell. “You’re lucky they turned out to have such an attractive shape.”

Crowley’s thoughts skittered towards the ditch again. Those words sounded an awful lot like flirting. If Fell were a few years older, or was a little less naive, then those words would most definitely mean that Crowley should be looking for a place to pull over. But Fell was barely more than a youth. And he was innocent for his age. So Crowley fixed his eyes, and his mind, on the road. 

"What if," said Fell, "Could I ask you to call me by my Christian name? Just for tonight?"

"Sir?"

"Only I don't have any friends at the house, and my aunts and cousins are so hateful, and you aren’t terribly much older than me. I'd like to have a friend. At least for an hour. It would mean so much to me."

“Eeerghk,” said Crowley. How could this young man possibly be so innocent as to not know what he was doing? But he was innocent. He was all kindness and light. 

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” But then he took off his hat. 

“I think that I will have to cut my hair after all,” he said. “What do you think?” And he pulled the light blue ribbon out of his hair. He shook his head and the white-blond curls unfurled and bounced around his shoulders. The smells of bergamot and sandalwood wafted off of them in clouds.

"You're staring," said Aziraphale.

"Eeerkgh, eyah," said Crowley. "Never seen hair so white s'all. S'the thing of it. Just. Moonlight. Very reflective. The light is."

"Do you want to touch?", said Aziraphale.

Crowley put both reins in one hand, tugged off the other glove with his teeth and extended his fingers. It was like touching the wing of a butterfly. He realized that he wasn't breathing. 

"Soft," he said at last. 

"I'm sure it isn't as soft as a woman's," said Aziraphale. 

"Wouldn't know," said Crowley. 

Aziraphale's breath caught. 

"Well," said Aziraphale. "If the ladies aren't able to see how attractive you are, they are fools. I think you are very handsome."

Crowley realized that he was panting. There was a certain overly optimistic part of his mind that was screaming at him to just take what this beautiful young lord was offering him. He turned his head to look at his companion. But Aziraphale was staring straight ahead. The silence went on. The horses’ hoofbeats were like Crowley's own heartbeat. In his mind, the same words kept trotting through: ‘He’s a virgin, he’s a virgin, he’s a virgin, be careful, be careful, be careful.’ 

There was no room for error here. If Crowley was wrong, losing his place at Empyrean Hall would be the very least of his worries. Was it worth risking his life for lust? But this was more than lust. None of his previous lovers had ever offered so much kindness. The sweetness of this young man made Crowley stupid with longing. Being alone with him was like coming to clear the table after a dinner at the big house and finding a rich creamy profiterole just sitting on a plate, completely untouched. 

"I've never kissed a woman," said Crowley. He placed the emphasis on each word very carefully. 

And now Aziraphale turned to look at him. "Never?"

"Never."

"Would you ever want to?", said Aziraphale.

"Dunno," said Crowley, very slowly, very carefully. He was almost certain, but Fell was his superior in every way and his life was forfeit if he was wrong. "Maybe."

They came to a crossroads and slowed down to take the turn. The motion of the carriage jostled Aziraphale into his side, but the heir didn't move away. When Crowley turned his head to look at him, the heir of Empyrean Hall pressed his lips into Crowley’s. Aziraphale was making little dry-lipped pecking motions with pursed lips, as if he’d only learned of kissing from illustrations. Crowley kept a half an eye on the road and he slowed the horses gradually, until they were stopped in the road. Then he threw the brake, turned himself on the seat and threaded his fingers into Aziraphale's hair. He felt the young man's hand on his knee, and he kissed him gently. He teased and sucked at the corner of his lips as he rubbed small circles along the line of Aziraphale’s jaw. 

Now Aziraphale was moaning open-mouthed against his lips and tracing a soft finger along the scars of his cheek. Crowley dared to dip the tip of his tongue inside the young lord’s mouth, and he was rewarded with another moan of pleasure. Yes. This was happening. No question at all where they were heading. He was going to completely devour this young lord. He'd have to find a place to pull off the road. Crowley knew this stretch of road relatively well, but he had never before thought of where along it you could find some privacy. He contemplated the geography of the local region as he snaked his fingers under the lap blanket and traced them over the young lord’s thigh. 

There was a distant sound of hoofbeats on the road, and the two men flew apart. Crowley couldn’t tell if the other vehicle was behind them or in front of them, so, to be safe, he released the brake and started the horses moving. When he saw horses and a lantern appearing ahead of him in the distance, he pulled tight to the shoulder of the road. When the other driver passed him he touched his hat and wished the man a good evening. He prayed that neither the light of the moon nor that of his own lantern showed the stranger how hot and flustered his face was. 

The spell was broken. Aziraphale had shifted away from him on the seat and now sat very straight and still. Crowley willed himself not to snarl in frustration. He couldn’t push. He had to let Aziraphale make the next move. Anything that happened between them had to be something Aziraphale consented to completely. Given the difference in their ranks, there was no other way for this to work. 

"You lied," said Aziraphale. "You've obviously kissed before."

"Didn't lie," said Crowley. “Never kissed a woman.”

Aziraphale gasped. "Oh!", he said. Then, after a moment: “Who?"

"I don't kiss and tell," said Crowley. “Ever.”

Aziraphale responded with a little noise that Crowley couldn't make sense out of. Then he was silent for the next five minutes. They reached the gatehouse and hailed the gatekeeper and wished him a good evening. They drove into the park. 

Aziraphale whispered. "Did you ever do anything more than kiss?"

"Can’t say," said Crowley. 

"Um," replied Aziraphale. "I suppose not." There was another silence. Then another whispered question. 

"Did you love him?"

"No," said Crowley. 

"Oh," said Aziraphale. And he sounded disappointed. Then he tried again. "But do you think love is possible? I mean, between, um, men."

"Don't see why not," said Crowley. 

There was a great sigh from the seat next to him. But Aziraphale said nothing more until they reached the front of the Hall. 

"Anthony," he said, "There's another ball next week. In Leighton. I would like for you to drive me there. In this phaeton."

"Absolutely, sir," said Crowley. 

The front door opened, and a footman rushed out, holding up a lantern to light the young heir's path.

  
  
  
  
  



	8. Making the Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley shares a carriage ride with someone he loves: in the present, in Tadfield, and in the past, near Empyrean Hall.
> 
> Chapter rated E for Exactly what Crowley was hoping for.

  
  


June 1817, Tadfield

"I know which road it is, Aziraphale."

"Just trying to be helpful."

Crowley urged Bentley onto the road that led from the center of the village of Tadfield to a little farm a quarter mile away.

"Bentley must be tired from the journey from London," said Aziraphale. "We could have walked."

"She still hates rural stables because I abandoned her in one last year."

"I did check on her," said Aziraphale. "While you were ill in bed last year. I did my very best to see that her needs were met."

"Well you can't blame a person for being angry about being abandoned," said Crowley, and he took a certain satisfaction in seeing Aziraphale turn away and touch his temple in a way that shielded his eyes from Crowley. A little bit of shame looked good on the aristocrat. 

That good feeling lasted about two seconds before Crowley felt his lower social rank settling back over his shoulders like a millstone. Something about driving Aziraphale had made him think of the old days. He was acting too familiarly. He had momentarily forgotten his utter dependency, his utter helplessness. He offered an olive branch: 

"It's nice to be back out in the country.”

“Good,” said Aziraphale.

“Bentley likes it too. I'll turn her out in the common field behind the inn tonight. Big treat for her."

"When was the last time she was turned out?"

"Last year," said Crowley. "When we were here." He shrugged at Aziraphale's horrified expression. "Life of a city horse."

Aziraphale was silent. He looked off over the fields. 

"Uh, yeah," said Crowley, as the Youngs’ farmhouse came into view. He fished into his pocket. "Take this. S' for him. Little thing."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "It's absolutely darling. A little wooden horse. What a splendid gift." He turned on the seat and held it towards Crowley. "Wouldn't you rather be the one to present it to Adam?"

"Doesn't know me," muttered Crowley. 

They arrived at the little farmhouse very quickly, and a seven year old girl came out the front door, bearing an auburn haired infant on her hip. She met Aziraphale at the gate, and Aziraphale crouched down before the children and allowed his finger to be grasped by a plump little hand. "Well aren't you getting big, Adam?", said Aziraphale. "And you too Sarah, you've grown quite a bit since I've last seen you."

Crowley sat frozen in the gig. He was afraid that if he got too close to the baby, he'd want to steal him back. 

"Is that your carriage?", Sarah asked. 

"Yes,” lied Aziraphale. "Would you and Adam like to have a ride in it?" 

Crowley's heart started thumping a thousand miles a second. He barely heard what was said next, but Mr. and Mrs. Young came to the gate and there were some sorts of pleasantries exchanged and introductions made and the next thing he knew, little Sarah was being helped up and seated next to him in the gig. A moment later, Mrs. Young climbed in and the baby was passed up to sit in her lap. Aziraphale came round to Crowley's side of the gig and caught his eye and gave him a tiny little nod. "Nice and slow," Aziraphale said. And Crowley gripped the side of the gig to stop himself from crying out. 

Crowley breathed in and out, nice and slow. He turned his head, nice and slow, and he looked down at Adam sitting in the lap of the woman that had become his mother. Crowley inclined his head toward Mrs. Young, and he stared at his son for as long as he dared. There were Bess's dark eyes, he was sure of it. And the hair: wavy, auburn, a little darker than his own. He felt his chest seizing up as if a fist were inside it. 

Little Sarah was sitting in the middle. She looked from Crowley to Adam and back. "Isn't my brother a beautiful baby?", she said. 

“Uh," said Crowley. "Eyeah-uh. Very. Uh. Everybody ready?" 

Crowley was terrified that something would go wrong: Bentley would spook or the gig would flip over. None of his fears made any sense. There was no overloaded cart bearing down on them. There was no pedestrian opening an umbrella inches from Bentley's face. And even if there had been, in his hands, Bentley was as stable a horse as ever there was. Also, they were on a quiet lane, the road was flat and well repaired, and there was no danger in sight. Crowley kept looking over at Adam, wondering if he might wriggle out of Mrs. Young’s arms and fall out the side of the gig to be crushed under its wheels. At the same time as he was imagining unlikely disasters, he was also desperately trying to memorize the way Adam's little voice sounded, the way he looked when he stuck his tongue out, the way his fingers gripped Mrs. Young's skirt.

Crowley walked Bentley slowly up and down the lane and listened to his son babble. He could nearly imagine that this was his real family, that Bess was alive and they were having a day out in the country with their son, riding in the gig, enjoying a family afternoon of leisure that had been earned by Crowley and Bentley's labour. 

Crowley drove up and down in front of the house three times, fifty yards in each direction, at a slow walk, and then the strain of his fears became too much for him to bear any longer. He pulled the gig up in front of the gate. 

"Got to give the mare a rest," he said. 

"Ba, ba, ba, ba," agreed Adam. 

There was never, in the next hours, any opportunity for Crowley's mind to stop spinning. Aziraphale kept up the pretense that Crowley was his servant, but he insisted that Crowley enter the little house while he visited with the family. Crowley stood in a corner, watching the little girl helping her brother to walk back and forth across the floor in front of him. He watched when Aziraphale presented the family with ten yards of factory-woven cotton muslin. He stood at attention when the wooden horse was gifted to the baby. He watched as Adam stood, supporting himself by holding the leg of the table, and mouthed on the horse's head. Then Adam dropped it on the floor. Crowley dared to walk near to his son to pick the horse up and wipe the dust off with his handkerchief. While he cleaned it Adam looked up at him with Bess's eyes.

"You can give it back to him," said Mrs. Young. And Crowley held out the toy. The little fellow swayed on unsteady feet and reached out and took the wooden horse from him. "You're very good with babies," said Mrs. Young. "Do you have children of your own?"

***

Aziraphale was utterly silent on the short ride back to the inn in Tadfield. He could see that Crowley was trying to fix all the memories of his ten month old son into his mind and he didn't want to interfere. But, over supper, he finally asked: "Did I overstep today?"

And Crowley looked off at the wall of the inn. "Wish I'd had some warning. 'Bout the driving with them."

"A spontaneous idea, I assure you," said Aziraphale. 

And Crowley turned to face him and said: "You really just do that. You just can't help being kind. Still. You do it without even thinking. Even after everything that happened, you can't help but be kind to me."

"Well, I think--"

"Don't think," said Crowley. "Whenever you think, you get afraid, and that's when you turn cruel. And I don't want any cruelty between us today. Can you do that for me? Just be the you that doesn't think about consequences or money or your family. Just be that person. Just while we're here. Just today."

"Of course. As you wish."

So they talked about cheerful things. Aziraphale shared the gossip about the servants and grooms at Empyrean hall: Who had gotten drunk, who had gotten married, who had gotten drunk and then gotten married. Crowley shared tales from his London molly house, where men getting drunk and at least temporarily married was a nightly occurrence.

Aziraphale wondered if Crowley would ever marry again, in either sense. But, looking over at the black cravat that his friend still wore, he held his tongue. Anyway, if he was a closer friend to Crowley, he wouldn't even have to ask. He would already know. 

***

June 1819

It was Crowley's third visit to Tadfield. He was driving the gig from Adam's house back to the centre of Tadfield. Aziraphale was sitting next to him smiling and laughing, and doing his very best to make sure that Crowley's cheerfulness from the visit would last for as long as possible before the maudlin feelings inevitably overtook him. 

"Adam is so clever, isn't he?", said Aziraphale. "None of the children in my family ever spoke so plainly before they were three years old."

Crowley smiled. "Yeah," he said. He looked a lot less dour with a white cravat framing his face at last. 

"It's your cleverness coming through in him," said Aziraphale. 

"Emmm-myeh," said Crowley. "You picked a good family." And there was only a trace of wistfulness in his voice. 

"It's nice that he likes his baby sister," said Aziraphale. "But Pepper is a very strange nickname for a girl."

"I like the name," said Crowley. "Suits her. She's already tough. She'll be good for him."

They were going at a fair clip when they came to a bend in the road. There was a fallen tree branch right in the middle. As Bentley and the gig swerved around it, Aziraphale reflexively grabbed Crowley's knee. He pulled his hand away instantly. Then he considered what he had felt. Crowley's knee hadn't had its familiar boniness. Aziraphale had felt a soft broad lump, like there was cloth wrapped around the knee. 

"What's that under your breeches?", said Aziraphale.

"Bit forward aren't you?", said Crowley. The tone was carefully light. A tease. Mostly.

"Is your knee bandaged? Did you fall from the platform of this dreadful gig again?"

"Are you going to go on about that again?", said Crowley. "Because I'm less than a year from paying everything off, and I am a phenomenon in London. People stop in the street and watch me and Bentley dodge through traffic."

"You didn't answer," said Aziraphale. “Did you fall?”

"S'not an injury. I just bandage them both. Used to do it at night, but it works better to have them wrapped by day. Keeps the joints from swelling."

"It's from standing on that platform, isn't it?", said Aziraphale. "You're doing yourself an injury by balancing up there like that for all those hours. Bouncing over the cobblestones must be terribly jarring to your joints."

"The wrapping is just a precaution against injury," said Crowley. " 'M fine."

"I will be the judge of that," said Aziraphale.

"What?"

"I want to look at those knees."

"You want me to pull over to the side of the road and take my breeches off?" There was a suggestion of teasing, but there was also warning in his tone of voice.

"No," said Aziraphale. "You can come up to my room."

"You want me to come up to your room?" Crowley’s voice had lost all of its lightness. There was a line between them that could not be crossed, and Aziraphale was standing right next to that line.

"It's not like that," said Aziraphale. "I'm not suggesting anything lewd in the least. I just want to take care of you. Please let me."

"Whatever you like, Aziraphale," said Crowley. His voice was flat. 

***

When they got back to the inn, Aziraphale watched Crowley care for Bentley. He watched how he stood; watched how he walked, placing each foot carefully. When he followed behind him on the stairs, he watched Crowley's careful placement of each foot. He centered each foot on the stair above before shifting his weight. It wasn't particularly slow and there was no limp, but it wasn't the way a man of twenty-nine years would normally take a flight of stairs.

"Stop staring," said Crowley. "I can feel your eyes. And you don't have to follow behind so closely. 'M not going to fall."

They entered the narrow room that Aziraphale had rented. The late afternoon sunshine shone through the window. Aziraphale had Crowley sit down on the side of the bed so that his legs were in the sunbeam. Crowley bent over to unlace his boots, and Aziraphale crossed over to the window and stared down at the street below with his arms folded across his chest. 

" 'M only doing this because you'll never let it go otherwise," said Crowley. "I don't want my cheerful quarterly letters about my son to be filled with your nagging and worrying. So I'll show you the knees, and you'll see, and then you won't need to mention it ever again. Agreed?"

"I've not seen how bad they are," said Aziraphale. "I'm not _agreeing_ to anything."

"You never do," muttered Crowley. 

"We've had a pleasant day," said Aziraphale. "There's no need to dredge up past arguments."

"Obviously," said Crowley. "Why waste our time on something pointless." There was a sound of squeaking and shifting on the bed. "There. All ready."

Aziraphale turned around. There was Crowley. His long black coat and his black breeches were folded neatly on the bed next to him. His black hat sat on top of the pile. He was wearing a white cotton shirt that reached to mid-thigh. He had arranged it very carefully for modesty. His knees were bound with neatly wound strips of white muslin. His boots were standing on the floor beside him, but he was still wearing a pair of thick black woolen socks. 

Aziraphale knelt on the floor in front of Crowley. He eyed the thick socks. They didn't fit quite right. He knew the exact shape of Crowley's thin ankles. Something was distorted. 

"What's under here?", Aziraphale said. He pointed at the socks. Crowley huffed and made an angry wave of his hand. Aziraphale leaned back to give him room to take off his socks. When he peeled them away, there were white linen bandages crisscrossed neatly around his ankles and wound under the arches of his feet. 

"Oh, Crowley!"

"It's just for support!", said Crowley. "You always have to get hysterical over every little thing. I wish I hadn't shown you at all."

"I don't trust you one bit on this topic," replied Aziraphale. "We're unwinding all four of these bandages so that I can see the extent of your injuries."

Crowley looked mutinous. The muscles around his jaw tightened. The last time he had given Aziraphale such a look had been in London, just a few weeks before everything had ended. But Aziraphale didn’t back down. He held the eye contact until Crowley huffed and looked away at the wall. 

"Whatever you want," said Crowley. 

Crowley untied the little knot on the wrapping of one knee while Aziraphale worked open the knot on the ankle. They unwound the bandages more or less simultaneously. There was a slight smell of linseed oil. Aziraphale was relieved to see no obvious discoloration or cuts. He started unwrapping the ankle on the other side. When everything was bare, he looked closely.

Aziraphale prodded at Crowley's knees with his fingertips. They were less bony than he remembered. Softer. With a subtle warmth to them. They were, perhaps, just a bit pink. The skin was intact all the way around. If he hadn't previously memorized the exact shape of these bones, Aziraphale wouldn't have even known that something was wrong. 

"Your hours are too long," said Aziraphale. "Do you take Sundays for rest?"

"People who are running late for church are some of the Devil's Carriage's best customers," said Crowley. "They pay double my normal rate." 

"They'd be better exemplars of the Christian spirit if they were to leave their homes ten minutes earlier and put that extra money into the collection plate," said Aziraphale.

"Well," said Crowley, "Good thing for me that London isn't filled with exemplary Christians." He pulled his ankle away from Aziraphale's probing fingers. "Right," he said. "You've seen. You've touched. You're done." 

“I do care, you know,” said Aziraphale. “I want to help you.”

“As you say. Turn around so I can get dressed.”

Aziraphale strode over to the window and looked out of it. Crowley spoke to his back.

“I’m sure it makes you feel good to interfere with my life to make me a ‘better person’, but you don’t have the right to do that anymore. You gave that up voluntarily, Aziraphale. And I resent you treating me like I’m still yours. It hurts. Find another way to assuage your guilt.”

“I don’t feel guilt over my choice,” said Aziraphale. “It was the only way.”

Crowley made a noise that was halfway between a snarl and a derisive whistle. 

“Well, for all that you complain,” said Aziraphale. “It worked. You did find love, and I’ll bet you even stopped going to that dangerous molly house for a time. I’ve no doubt you’ll find love again. That’s what I want for you. I want you to be happy. And I won’t be made to feel badly about not participating in encouraging you to take dangerous risks.”

“It was for ME to decide what risks were worth it,” said Crowley. "I might have hanged for love of you, but I would have gone to the gallows a happy man."

Aziraphale turned around. His face was hot and twisted with anger. “You selfish bastard!”, he said. “I’m so very sorry that your life is worth nothing to you.” He gathered up his possessions from the room and threw them into his bag in a fury. “You have a healthy son. You have every chance of marrying again. And, as long as you don’t destroy your health in pursuit of your mad business plans, you can expect to live a long and prosperous life.” He picked up his bag and pulled the door open. “I will see you next year! I hope that by then you will find a way to appreciate the opportunities you have been given.” He strode out and slammed the door behind him. 

***

October 1812

Crowley sat in a pew at church with all of the stable crew. There were four rows of pews filled with the Fell family servants and he was in the last one. Ahead of his row were the maids. In front of them were the male servants. The cook, steward, butler, stableman, housekeeper, ladies' maids and valet were in the front row. There were fifty-three servants in all. Closer to the front of the church, the family box was filled with those who lived in Empyrean Hall and the dower house. There were thirteen of them, but the only one who mattered was the beautiful creature with the white hair who was sitting to the right of the earl. 

Crowley had kissed Aziraphale four nights earlier, and today was only the second time he'd seen him since then. The very morning after the harvest ball, the estate started taking delivery of the bulk vegetables and grain that would be needed for autumn and winter. And so, instead of caring for Ganymede, Crowley had been engaged to drive a lurry back and forth to the village to fetch these supplies. There had been one moment, when Aziraphale had been out riding with two of his young female cousins, and Crowley had passed them all on the lane. The heir had bestowed on him a little glance and an enigmatic smile, and that had been enough to nearly make Crowley faint. 

And now, as he was sitting in church, in the same church as Aziraphale, listening to the same hymns he'd heard a thousand times, the words of the sacred songs were making Crowley’s heart soar in a way they never had before. Crowley found himself believing in it all: goodness, redemption, hope. As the minister spoke about trials and faith, Crowley thought about how beautiful Aziraphale looked with his new haircut. The heir's white-blonde curls were now sitting atop his head in a short little fluffy pile, a very becoming style that was suitable for a young gentleman. His coat and breeches were both brand new, and cut to suit modern sensibilities. 

After the service, the thirteen Fell family members all squeezed into the two carriages and the phaeton, leaving the servants to walk home behind them. It was autumn and there were flocks of birds in the fields, eating their fill. Everything was bounteous. There were clouds overhead, but they parted as the servants walked through the grounds of the estate. Some shafts of sunlight lit the path, and Crowley saw the beams of light and had a revelation that nearly made him start dancing. 

The revelation was this: the wonderful feeling that was lightening his steps all the way back to the stable wasn't lust. It wasn't just the wanting of another man. This was something more. This feeling of wanting to protect Aziraphale, wanting to make him laugh, wanting to explain things to him, wanting to make everything perfect for him: this couldn't be anything other than love. Real love, like in stories. A few nights ago, Aziraphale had asked whether love was possible between men, and Crowley had answered yes, not fully understanding why he suddenly knew it to be so. But the reason he knew was because he was feeling it. 

When he was younger, Crowley had assumed that eventually he'd find a beautiful woman, fall in love with her, and leave his lustful sodomite ways behind. Then, later, he’d settled on the vaguely unsatisfying notion that someday he might find a handsome companion whom he could regularly engage with. The possibility that he could actually fall in love with a man was something he had never considered. And, yet, here he was. His worldview was completely upended. Everything he wanted in life was now in one person, and that person was Aziraphale Fell.

That night, Crowley lay in bed and planned out the seduction of Aziraphale. He imagined a dozen different ways it could go. It had to be perfect. Everything had to be as sweet and lovely as Aziraphale himself. Every word, every touch. The young man was a virgin. His first experience should be everything Crowley's wasn't. His pleasure needed to be paramount. But how best to introduce him to all of the pleasures that could be had? The order of things was important.

There were some other irksome thoughts that kept trying to chew their way into Crowley's consciousness like little mice. These thoughts had to do with social rank and with relative wealth and with the law. But those unpleasant thoughts couldn’t make it past the sturdy walls of love that sheltered Crowley. And he knew with all his being that this was love that he was feeling. True love. Before he'd even spoken a dozen words to Aziraphale, true love had been strong enough to lift him out of the despair he had wallowed in for months after being sent away from the Hall. The power of true love had gotten him promoted to better work in the stables. One kiss from his true love had made him believe in God again. What miracle would happen when he finally was able to physically make love to Aziraphale? Surely the power of that miracle would solve all these pesky material world problems. To believe otherwise would be to mistrust love itself. Crowley had a duty to follow love, wherever it led, and to have faith that the obstacles would melt away. 

Crowley drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face. 

The next morning, two days before the new lovers could expect to be together alone again, Mr. Fell came riding into the yard. Just before he dismounted, he pulled something from his pocket and held it between his hand and the horse's neck. Crowley took the reins and the object, a sealed envelope, at the same time. Then, concealing the envelope in his hand between his body and Ganymede's, Crowley tucked it into his pocket. He helped Aziraphale down, daring to make a tiny touch to the back of the young lord's arm. Aziraphale leaned into the touch for just a moment. They exchanged a glance. It was all they could dare to do. There were people everywhere in the yard. 

All morning, Crowley touched the envelope through the outside of his pocket. It wasn't perfectly flat, so there was something in it. But the item wasn't hard. Something soft. Cloth, perhaps. During dinner, he thought he might go mad from anticipation. When he was dismissed from the table, he ran out to tack up Ganymede to take him on his afternoon training ride. Poor Ganymede was forced to trot as soon as he was out of sight of the yard, and then he was made to canter nearly all the way to a quiet spot that Crowley knew out behind a folly near the woods. When they reached their destination, Crowley put on a halter and pulled off Ganymede’s bridle so that the lazy horse could do what he did best.

"You aren't going to run off on me," said Crowley. Ganymede snuffled his agreement. He put his head down and started nibbling on a patch of orchard grass. "Now," said Crowley. "Lets see what your master gave me."

Crowley cracked the wax seal. Then he gasped. The horse raised his head and looked around for a moment. Seeing no danger, he went right back to work on the grass. Crowley, on the other hand, was staring at the thing in his hand. It was a lock of curly blonde hair, tied with a light blue ribbon. The ribbon was perfumed with bergamot and sandalwood. He held the bundle of hair to his cheek and rubbed the softness of the hair back and forth, gently, so as not to tangle it or disturb it. "This is it," he said. "Proof. He loves me back. Ganymede. He loves me." 

Crowley spent the rest of the day thinking of what gift he might bestow upon his beloved. He had few possessions: most of his clothes were owned by the Hall. Other than that he had his grooming supplies and a flask and a deck of cards and a few dozen magazines which had pictures of telescopes and stars. There was money owed to him by the house, but he'd have to walk up to the Hall to request it, and by the time he got it, his hour off would be nearly gone and there wouldn't be time to get to the village and back. And he didn't even know enough about his true love to know what sort of present would be appreciated. 

In the end, he settled for murmuring "You have my heart," into the young lord's ear as he dismounted on Tuesday morning. Aziraphale flushed prettily, but the only other person in the yard was engaged in slopping the pig, and the blush went unnoticed. 

On Wednesday, the thing Crowley murmured was "I look forward to tonight." Aziraphale grinned. Then he completely lost control as he dismounted, and went sliding off the saddle. Crowley caught him by the waist and set him on his feet.

"Oh, dear," said Aziraphale. It was obvious from his consternation that slipping had been an honest accident. But still, their faces were so close for just a moment, and Crowley smelled the bergamot and sandalwood perfume that Aziraphale wore. Then Aziraphale looked up into his eyes and muttered: "Tonight." 

After an early supper, Crowley carried a bucket of boiling water upstairs. He didn't have special livery for driving, but at least he could take a bath. He emptied the bucket of boiling water into the squat little hip bath, then he went out to the yard to fill two more buckets at the pump. Two cool buckets plus one boiling made for a toasty bath. He stripped and scrubbed at his face and hands and hair, then he stood in the little tub and gave himself a once-over. He finished by sitting in it, leaning against the raised back of the sitting bath, his long arms and legs splaying out over the low sides like a spider. No matter how warm the water was, this kind of bath was never exactly relaxing for him. A man his size really couldn't enjoy a sitting bath. 

Crowley didn't have perfume, but he did have a spare linen shirt, and it was clean. He was not going to go out with Aziraphale smelling any more of animals than he absolutely needed to. Unfortunately, his clean livery wouldn't arrive till Saturday afternoon, so the shirt and his socks would be the only fully clean things he could wear. There wasn't a mirror in the dormitory, so he checked his hair in the mirror of the harness room as he passed through it. 

"Here's Anthony!", said the stableman, as he entered the yard. "Ahead of schedule and looking clean and smart. Let this be an example to you younger lads. Anthony aims to be noticed by his master tonight. To become a driver, it's not enough to be able to drive well and know how to maintain the animals and equipment, you also need to show your master that you are eager to work and that you are able to exemplify the dignity of the house at all times. Right, Anthony?"

"Eeerkgh, yeah." said Crowley. "Yeah, that, um. That. True. Yeah. Probably should, uh, look over the phaeton, make sure it's all packed." And he headed off to make sure that there were rugs and buckets and grain for the horses and a thick blanket for whatever use to which he might put it. 

***

Aziraphale had asked to be brought to the ball after the rest of his family. He used the excuse that he needed extra time to dress because he was anxious to make a better impression at this ball than at his first. This was why he needed to take the two-seater and have a driver all to himself. The women, and Michael, were all just as happy to not have to share a carriage with him. And his excuse turned out to be true in the end. He was dreadfully nervous about how he looked, because it wasn’t just the strangers at the ball that he hoped to impress tonight. 

After agonizing over his clothing for nearly an hour and a half, Aziraphale finally made his way out to the front of the Hall, and his charming driver was waiting for him with the phaeton, some blankets, and a cloth wrapped hot water bottle for his feet. 

Their conversation as they drove through the park turned out to be easy. Everything Aziraphale could think to say made Crowley laugh. They talked about horses and about the follies they passed and, especially, about clothing styles. Crowley must have known that Aziraphale felt unsure about how he looked because he made a big deal about complimenting his new hairstyle and the high cut of his tailcoat. He specifically admired the clean modern lines of his cuffs and collar. Aziraphale wondered aloud that a groom should know so much about fashion and Crowley laughed and said that he cared deeply about anything that touched Aziraphale’s skin. All the time they talked, they were pressed up together from knee to shoulder, feeling each other's warmth, even though the night wasn't yet very cool. They separated when they drew close to the gatehouse, but once they were on the road, they leaned together again.

On an empty section of road three miles from the gatehouse Crowley stopped the phaeton: "On the other side of this hedgerow," he said, "is an unused field. It's completely enclosed on all sides. There's a little track up ahead that leads to it. If you want, on the way back, we can stop there for a bit to rest."

Aziraphale took Crowley's hand and squeezed it. 

"That's a yes?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. And Crowley started up the horses again. 

***

"How was the ball?", asked Crowley. 

"Dreadful," said Aziraphale. He paused. "But better than last time. A woman danced with me. I was awful but she was very nice, and she kept looking over at me as if she wanted me to dance again."

"You didn't?!", said Crowley. 

"No," said Aziraphale. "Noooooo. Dodged that one."

"Well done," said Crowley. "I space it out. No more than one dance every third ball, no matter who she is."

"I found another partner. I didn't have time to be choosy and she was very unpleasant. Endless questions about the Hall and the grounds. But I trod on her foot, so that was my revenge." 

They went on like that for a while, sitting close together, trading war stories from dances past. Aziraphale had placed a warm hand on Crowley's knee, but he didn't seem interested in doing anything more than that, so Crowley let it be. He slowed down as they drew closer to the track that led to the field. 

"I suppose I'll just ask the dancing master to teach quadrille when he comes to the Hall next week," said Aziraphale.

"I can teach you quadrille," said Crowley. "Right now, if you like."

Aziraphale made a high pitched squeaking noise. His hand squeezed on Crowley’s knee.

"Or not. Not is fine," said Crowley. It was a lie. 

"I, uh, Yes," said Aziraphale. "Yes, please." He started to vibrate. "Yes." And he cuddled close and tucked his head in under Crowley's chin as they took the turn onto the track. A hundred yards from the road there was a break in the hedgerow, and Crowley stopped the phaeton, jumped down, opened the gate, then drove the phaeton in and pulled the brake. 

"I've never," said Aziraphale. 

But Crowley didn't wait for him to finish the sentence. He just covered Aziraphale's mouth with his own. Instantly, they were a tangle of limbs. Whenever Crowley left Aziraphale's lips to attend to his neck or cheeks, the young lord panted and made inarticulate noises. Eventually Crowley pulled away and started to back out of the carriage. He grabbed Aziraphale's hand and pulled him towards the step. Aziraphale tripped while getting out of the phaeton and fell in Crowley's arms. They kissed again, now standing and fully up against each other. Aziraphale pressed himself against Crowley’s leg and started rutting against him. 

"Hush, hush," said Crowley. He stepped back, holding Aziraphale away from him with hands on both sides of his jaw. "Two minutes. Just two minutes. Got to cover the horses."

Aziraphale nodded rapidly. He backed away until he was standing against the side of the phaeton, in between the front and rear wheels. He stood there, panting, and not saying a word while Crowley unhitched the traces and put rugs on both of the horses. 

As soon as he was finished with the necessary preparations, Crowley came back and stood in front of his beloved. He tried for a kiss, but Aziraphale turned his head away. 

"I, uh, I've never. . .", said Aziraphale. "Um. Will it hurt?"

"No," said Crowley. "Nothing but pleasure for you. Whatever you want. Just tell me."

Aziraphale stammered.

"Let me just," said Crowley. "Stay right there." He ran to the back of the phaeton and pulled the big thick blanket out. He tossed it onto the ground at Aziraphale's feet. "Now kiss me, and trust me."

It only took a minute before Aziraphale melted into his arms again, and soon he was writhing and rutting against Crowley's thigh as he had before. From there it was easy. Crowley slid a hand down towards Aziraphale's breeches buttons. "Yes?", he said. 

"Please," said Aziraphale. "Please." 

The front flap of Aziraphale's breeches was soon hanging open, and the young lord jumped at the touch of Crowley's hand. When Crowley stroked him, he mewled and cried and lost the ability to kiss at all. When Crowley slid to his knees, Aziraphale's hands followed him down. He laid a hand on Crowley's cheek and threaded another in his hair, and looked down at him with wonder.

Crowley froze for a moment. Then he realized that it was the hand in his hair that was the cause of the flash of terror that was marring this otherwise divine moment. 

Crowley took Aziraphale's hands off of his head and placed them flat against the side of the phaeton. Aziraphale looked confused for a moment, but he accepted it. He straightened up, pressed his back up against the side of the phaeton and kept his hands by his sides, pressing them against the side of the phaeton. The gibbous moon was just past its zenith. From Crowley’s vantage point it seemed to peek from behind Aziraphale’s curls, giving his head a glow like a halo. Aziraphale looked down at Crowley and he seemed like an angel that had landed on Earth. 

"Yes?", said Crowley. 

Aziraphale nodded. As Crowley started to work, Aziraphale's fingernails scraped along the lacquered wood of the phaeton. He cried out so loudly that the sound echoed across the field. Crowley pulled off.

"Shhhh!!!", said Crowley. 

Aziraphale nodded again. Crowley tucked his hands into the front of Aziraphale's breeches and stroked his thighs while the young lord got control of himself. When he put his mouth back to work again, Aziraphale threw back his head against the phaeton with a mighty thump that startled the horses. 

"Sorry," whispered Aziraphale. "More, more, oh, please. Please. I think I'll die if you stop."

Crowley obliged him. He had never felt so much joy in doing this for another man. He felt like he must be floating in heaven. He was tethered to an angel. The stream of entreaties from Aziraphale soon turned into an inarticulate wail of ecstasy; Crowley tasted liquid divinity and he took it into his body-- the most holy communion he had ever experienced in the nearly twenty-three years of his blasphemous life. Crowley worked Aziraphale through the finish, gently kneading his thighs to calm him, then he whispered "Hush, hush," as he tucked his lover's shirt back into his breeches and buttoned them up neatly. 

When Crowley stood up, Aziraphale fell against him. Crowley wrapped his arms around his trembling young lover and held him. 

"That was," said Aziraphale. "How did you? That was amazing." Then he melted into Crowley's arms. "I love you," he whispered. "I never want to be parted from you. I want to sleep in your arms every night."

"Oh, Angel," said Crowley. "Me too."

They stood in the moonlight, holding each other and rocking together, the slightly chilly air on their backs making the heat of their bodies all the more delightful. 

"Wait," said Aziraphale. "Do you want me to, um, do for you? I'm sorry, I was so overwhelmed. I didn't mean to be rude. You'll have to teach me." And he started to wrestle Crowley towards the phaeton, as if to press him against it. He started to try to slip out of Crowley’s arms and down his body, but Crowley held him up. 

"Let's keep it simple," said Crowley. "Kiss me again." 

And they did. When the time seemed right, Crowley opened his breeches and guided Aziraphale's hand in stroking him. It was the sweetest and slowest build-up he had ever experienced. Time just stretched on and on. It was filled with the warm press of their bodies, the sound of the sheep bleating in a nearby field, the champing of the horses as they ate the grass. Aziraphale's scented curls were under Crowley's nose and his warm hand was stroking and his voice was whispering beautiful heavenly words in Crowley's ear. The horses were breathing and shuffling around, the moonlight blazed across the field and the stars wheeled overhead. Crowley was in a haze of ecstasy when Aziraphale whispered: "Will you be mine forever?" He roared his answer.

"YESSSSSSSS!!!!"

  
  
  



	9. Passionate Arguments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have chemistry. And lots of disagreements.

CW: Discussion of sexual abuse; heavy Regency politics, Misogyny 

November, 1819

_My Dear C,_

_I write to you off of our normal schedule to inform you that Adam contracted and fully recovered from a feverish rash during the first weeks of November. By the time I was informed and reached the Youngs’ farmhouse, his fever had already begun to subside. I stayed three nights in Tadfield and, in the end, I was able to see the little fellow up and about, making trouble as usual._

_All this business with Adam’s rash gives me a fine excuse to avoid the nursery and Uriel and Michael’s new baby. It is, as I had feared, a boy. My successor. Much as I loathe the very idea of passing the estate to any child of Michael’s, the baby is an innocent, and so it is my duty to protect him from contagion. Happily, that means I can pass the rest of the week in my room in good conscience. I’ve told them all that I’ve taken ill, which is near enough to the truth._

_Your son remains the only child I have ever found I liked. In addition to having an excellent constitution, he is of a higher caliber in every way than any other child I’ve met. I would count it as a personal favour if you were to consider siring more children, as a means of doing your part to ensure that the next generation is of better quality than the current crop of humanity._

_Your Faithful Friend,_

_A_

Crowley nodded as the Queen Mother finished reading the letter aloud. “Countryside is still safer overall,” he said. “Less illness there. What do you think it was?”

“Measles,” said the Queen Mother. “Almost impossible to avoid. But now that hurdle is done with. And, if I may say, no matter how you feel about what passed between you, she’s doing right by your son. She’s a good person.” 

“She’s meddlesome,” said Crowley. “That ‘sire another child’ thing. I have a child. That child is Adam.”

“I think she means to tell you to remarry, to not worry about Adam’s care even if you have a second family to support.”

“You always take her part,” said Crowley. “I want you to write her and tell her that if she likes children so well she can take a trip up petticoat lane and get one for herself. Go on! Write it.”

“Dear me,” said the Queen Mother. “I’m afraid the ink has gone dry.” 

***

June 1820

The yearly visit was ending. Crowley pulled his eyes away from his son, who was jumping and waving at the gate, and clicked for Bentley to move on. As soon as they were out of earshot, Aziraphale began prattling in his cheerful way. 

"Nearly four years old," said Aziraphale. "More handsome every day. And so very forward and confident. He's absolutely impetuous, but yet I find him charming. Don't you?"

"Mmmmhmmm," said Crowley. 

"I hope you can see how well he is thriving," said Aziraphale.

"No need to rub it in," said Crowley.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Of course he's confident," said Crowley. "That's what you pay for. The family treats him like a little lord."

"Well, yes," said Aziraphale. "That's as we hoped."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "So, speaking of spoiled lords, how are things at your club? Anyone tickling your fancy these days?"

"Well, I shouldn't think that's any concern of yours."

"Why not? You concern yourself with who I fuck, why shouldn't I do the same?"

"Don't be vulgar," said Aziraphale. "And it's not the same. I had merely expressed the hope that you would marry again."

"Two marriages, two heartbreaks, that's enough for a lifetime," said Crowley. 

"I don't think it’s healthy for you to be alone," said Aziraphale.

"Well, if you truly feel that way, you know what you can do about it," said Crowley. "Till then, I'll take my comforts where I please."

They arrived in Tadfield without speaking another word. Crowley pulled up in front of the door of the tavern. Aziraphale climbed down with no help. He held onto the side of the gig with one hand and looked up at Crowley.

"I know you don't choose to believe it," said Aziraphale. "But I do truly wish things could be other than how they are."

Crowley tightened his jaw and turned his face away.

Two hours later, Bentley was frolicking in a green field. She was jumping and kicking and cantering up and down. Crowley was sitting on a stone wall on the side of the field, eating a lump of hard cheese and drinking from a flask. He could hear Aziraphale walking up behind him, leading his own horse. 

"Yes?", said Crowley.

"Do you mind if I turn him out with her? They seem to get along well."

Crowley shrugged. 

Bentley ran over to greet Ganymede. They sniffed and then she ran off. He followed her at a canter for a few dozen paces, then he slowed down. He watched her calmly as she danced past, lifting her legs and raising her tail. Eventually she decided to roll on her back in the grass, and Ganymede lowered his head and started to graze. 

"Well,” said Aziraphale, “I like to see Bentley so happy. Being in the countryside agrees with her."

"Obviously," said Crowley.

Aziraphale sat on the stone wall and they looked out over the field.

"How old is she now?"

“Ten," said Crowley.

"I, um," said Aziraphale. "When the time does come, I thought I might offer to take her at Empyrean Hall."

"You could never handle her," said Crowley. "She'll only barely tolerate a bearing rein; she's spirited and independent. Needs a strong hand. Not many can get her to work for them."

"Well," said Aziraphale. "The offer stands. Whether or not she can work."

"I don't understand you," said Crowley. "You want my son, you want my horse. You want everything about me, but you don't want me."

Aziraphale was silent. He held his face so very still that Crowley couldn't see what he was thinking at all. When he finally spoke, his voice was so small that Crowley had to lean in close to hear it.

"You are the thing I want the most," Aziraphale said. "But you won't let me keep you safe."

"I won't let you keep me, you mean," said Crowley.

"While I can admire your independence and your fearlessness," said Aziraphale, "I can't just ignore my duties to follow wherever you would want to go."

"You could if you wanted me enough."

"If I leave my inheritance behind, I would lose the means to protect you and us," said Aziraphale. 

Crowley shrugged.

"I see that we are still at an impasse,” said Aziraphale. “But I do care about you. Deeply.”

Crowley shrugged again. He crossed his arms and kicked out his legs over the grass so that the top half of him was full of tension, and the bottom half was a carefully casual sprawl. 

“For what it is worth to you,” said Aziraphale. “I want you to know that from the moment you leave tomorrow morning to the moment I receive your next letter, I will live with a dread fear in my belly. And even when I receive your letter, as soon as I'm done with it, I will recall how many days it takes for the letter to come from London, and I will wonder whether you could be that many days dead."

Aziraphale's eyes never left Crowley's through the whole of this angry little speech. Aziraphale was trembling so much that the curls of his hair had developed their own sympathetic vibration. 

" 'S not that dangerous Aziraphale."

"Which thing isn't dangerous? The standing on that treacherous platform to drive, the criminal activity, or the loitering in molly houses and infamous streets?” 

"I never loiter." 

“But I worry,” said Aziraphale. 

"Could meet you in London," said Crowley. "When you’re there for the winter season. I can find us a new room to let. Better than we used to have. Not as fancy as your club, but--."

"A room?"

"Not to, eyah-- Ergh. But just to talk. So you can see me. So you don't worry as much. I don’t want. You shouldn't. Worry." 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “Because if we have a room we’ll only succumb to temptation. I don’t want to become your excuse for not finding love,” said Aziraphale. “You’re capable of it. Your nature isn’t as fixed as mine. You should find a wife.”

“It’s not a lesser love,” said Crowley. “When it’s between men.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course,” he said. Then he took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is that if it is the same for you, and since you can choose,” said Aziraphale, “Why not have a life of safety? Why not choose children and a home?”

Crowley turned his head very slowly. He unwound his arms from around his chest. His hands made fists in the air, then they opened to grasp at nothing. Crowley brought one fist up to his mouth and thumped it on his closed lips. He shook his head, and then brought the fist up to his forehead. “If I could choose, Aziraphale,” he said. “If I could turn love on and off at will.” He took his fist away and looked right at Aziraphale. “Then I certainly wouldn’t choose this pain.” 

Aziraphale was breathing hard. But he turned away from Crowley and looked up at the sky. Crowley looked up too. There was a tiny cloud in the blue sky overhead. They watched it drift towards a bigger cloud until the clouds touched and the smaller one melted into the larger. 

“Did you still love me?” said Aziraphale, “Even when you were in love with her?”

Crowley bit his lip. He nodded. “Still am in love with her,” he said. “Always.”

“How many people can you love at the same time?”

“Dunno,” said Crowley. “I’m not dead yet.”

“I don’t know that I could love more than one person at the same time,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve tried, but it hasn’t worked. Sometimes I fear that you’ve ruined me, Crowley. I can’t give my heart to any other man.”

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale. He tilted his head. He felt his own jaw opening and closing and he heard tiny little noises escaping from his own mouth. But he couldn’t seem to articulate any words. And Aziraphale was looking at the clouds and talking to them. 

“I’m not trying to claim that I’ve been celibate,” said Aziraphale. “Far from it. But no matter how charmingly they court me, or how skilled they are, I can’t fall in love. I don’t know if I ever shall again. I just pass the time with them. The only peace my heart feels is this one day a year when I can see with my own eyes that you are alive and I can pretend you are still mine.” 

“ ‘M still yours,” said Crowley. 

Crowley dared to glance over at Aziraphale again. Aziraphale's face was scrunched up in concentration. He was moving his lips, sucking them in and then pursing them, as if words were silently leaving his mouth and he was eating them again before their sound could be heard. Finally, some words escaped. 

"I can keep my room here,” said Aziraphale. “Tonight. You could come up. To . . . talk. If you like."

“Yeeargh. Hmmmm. Yeah.”

***

Aziraphale was insatiable that night. That first night that they were together, the one where they stopped in the moonlit field after the ball and stayed for nearly two hours despite the cold, Aziraphale went two rounds and wanted to pull over inside the grounds of Empyrean Hall and go for a third. Every square inch of the young lord’s flesh that Crowley managed to uncover that night was a sensitive spot for him, and it was only through the exercise of utmost restraint that Crowley didn’t cover him with bruises from his earlobes to his knees. That night, every lick, nibble, or kiss sent Crowley’s young lover into such paroxysms of pleasure, such wriggling and moaning, that Crowley felt like a musician who had just discovered his true instrument. 

Of necessity, by their second encounter Aziraphale learned to subdue his cries, but Crowley could read his young lover’s every desire in the tiny movements of his body, the way his fingers gripped when their hands were intertwined, and the rapidness and shallowness of his breaths. 

All of his years of encounters with other noblemen meant that every time they met, Crowley could offer his beloved some new experience. Aziraphale devoured Crowley’s offerings with such awe and gratefulness that every past connection, even the dark and unpleasant ones, seemed to Crowley to have been the necessary precursors to this. How else would he know exactly what to do to ensure that every quiet gasp that his beloved yielded up to him was one of pure enjoyment? It seemed certain to Crowley that the entire purpose of his life was to bring pleasure to the beautiful creature that God had given to him to love.

There were logistics to be thought of, and they filled Crowley’s mind whenever he was parted from his beloved: where and when to meet, how to steal necessities like thick blankets and goose fat and towels. Those details were not for Aziraphale to worry over. His part was to embrace hedonism while Crowley pleasured him and rejoiced in his beauty. And he was beautiful: his face was flawlessly handsome, his hands were soft, and even the pale fuzz at the back of his neck was beautiful. Every inch of him was so clean and fresh that Crowley could have licked him from head to toe if only he had the time. 

The phaeton was a fast vehicle, and Crowley learned that driving it at top speed down a moonlit road was a sure way to get Aziraphale to grip his knee and plaster himself against his side and squeal in his ear. And he treasured every squeal he could get out of his lover. But, alas, the harvest balls were soon over, and with them, the excuse to take the phaeton out at night by themselves. So, as October ended, Aziraphale started to go out on more errands for the Hall, timing them, as best he could, for when the two regular drivers were unavailable. In this way, he got to go out with Crowley on one trip out of three. The weather soon turned cool and so they were obliged to take the carriages. This meant no sitting side by side during the drive. But they still had their hidden field three miles from the grounds of Empyrean Hall. 

Aziraphale also rode Ganymede on most mornings. When he brought his horse into the bustling stables, there would sometimes be an opportunity for a brief touching of hands. Hidden from others by the bodies of the horses, they communicated silently, by signs. Each of their favorite rendezvous on the grounds had a number, and they would hold up fingers to indicate at which of them they would meet during Crowley's next Tuesday or Thursday afternoon leisure hour. 

They never had a bed. A thick blanket liberated from the stables could serve to protect from the chill for a few minutes, but, even doubled over, it was no longer enough to stop the cold from seeping through. So lying down wasn’t something they did often. They had to be flexible in every way. Disused sheds on the estate, a hayloft, certain out of the way follies, and a carriage hidden in their secret field were the places where they stole their moments, in little allotments of twenty and thirty minutes. Wherever they went, the cold weather and the fear of interruption meant that most clothing needed to stay on, so that even after nearly two months, there were large parts of each other’s bodies that they’d never seen. 

During lovemaking, they filled each other’s ears with the repetitive staccato phrases of desire and adoration, and, in the precious moments after they finished, they conversed, in bursts of whispered sentences at each meeting, to form a drawn out conversation, which gradually added up into getting to know each other. 

Aziraphale was very conservative in his politics. This surprised Crowley, because he didn’t understand how that political orientation worked with Aziraphale’s general tendency towards charitableness and mercy towards the poor. He was half-afraid that if he poked at that contradiction everything would fall apart between them, so he limited his probing to the physical realm and mostly just nodded along as Aziraphale railed against the property damage that the Luddites had done in Nottingham and defended the use of English soldiers to protect the factories from the unemployed protestors. When Crowley got tired of nodding along and dared offer his own view that universal suffrage would make life better for the poor and thereby reduce civic unrest, Aziraphale dismissed it as ignorant, because Crowley couldn’t read well. “I’ll teach you Greek,” he said. “And then you can read Plato’s _Republic_ and you’ll understand, and we won’t ever need to argue about this again.” 

***

June 1822 Tadfield

The pattern they developed was that they shared a room both the night before and the night after each visit to the Youngs’ farm. On the first night in Tadfield, they had relations before they started arguing, and on the second night, they reversed the order and had the argument first. 

In the year that Adam was nearly six years old, the first night’s argument started with Aziraphale lying in Crowley’s arms, listening as his heart slowed down and playing idly with the hairs on the back of his arms.

"When I run the estate,” said Aziraphale. “I'll make you my valet. No one can stop me."

"That will just upset the other servants," said Crowley. “Wouldn’t work. You’ll find that being in charge doesn’t put you in charge of very much. The traditions and the rules are stronger than any one man.”

“What do you suggest I do, then?”

“Walk away from it,” said Crowley. 

"Well, I can't not take the earlship,” said Aziraphale. “I have a duty to do so. A duty to my cousins, the staff, the locals. Without the estate, none of them could survive. So I must preserve the estate in order to take care of them."

"None of them could take care of themselves without you?", said Crowley. "Really? Does it have to be you? It really doesn't matter who is there. Could be any warm body."

"Of course it has to be me. Michael is cruel. And if it isn't me, who will look after my sisters in their old age? Three of them are unmarried. They can't be expected to look after themselves. The fairer sex needs to be protected. It’s the natural way of things."

Crowley gave a playful swat to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You of all people should know better than to let other people tell you what’s natural and what’s not.”

Aziraphale sat up and looked Crowley in the eyes. “We can’t just disobey nature’s laws. It’s self-evident that women are the weaker sex. Their bodies and minds are delicate. And good men have a duty to protect them.”

Crowley’s whole body started to shake. He pushed Aziraphale off and doubled over and clutched his belly. “Nature’s laws,” he snorted. “And how would you know how strong women’s bodies are? You’ve never touched a woman’s body in your life!” He fell into Aziraphale’s lap and laughed till he cried. Then he rolled over and lay with his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s thighs and looked up at the ceiling as he wiped his eyes. 

“My point stands,” said Aziraphale. He pouted. “I have a duty under the law.”

Crowley stopped laughing. He sat up. He put a finger underneath Aziraphale’s jaw and turned his face so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. “What does the law have to do with what is right?”, said Crowley. “Us being together is right, and the law doesn’t understand that at all.”

Aziraphale’s eyes slid off to the side. “The law isn’t perfect,” he said, “I’ll be the first to admit that. But we need to respect that it keeps things orderly for society. We can’t just ignore it; there would be chaos.”

Crowley shook his head. "Angel,” he said. “The same law that will make you an earl is also the law that makes the women in your family unable to support themselves. Can’t you see?”

And Aziraphale was silent. Crowley blew out the candle and they lay together in the narrow bed, each of them lost in his own thoughts, until they both finally fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The next day, at the farm, Aziraphale gifted Adam with a primer and a slate, and Crowley gave him a sturdy little dog cart that was big enough for two children to ride in. The children were completely delighted. There were now four of them: Sarah, Adam, Pepper, and Brian. Judging by the size of Mrs. Young, another baby was on the way. This was Crowley's most enjoyable visit yet: He played with the children in the garden for over an hour while Aziraphale sat inside the house and discussed Adam's education with Mr. and Mrs. Young. 

On the second night, after they’d gotten back from seeing Adam and watching him and his siblings play with the dogcart, Aziraphale did his best to keep the conversation pleasant. Before they even got undressed, he told Crowley about his visit to the newly formed Royal Astronomical Society. “I attended a lecture by Mr. Herschel himself,” said Aziraphale. “And I took very careful notes, just so I could tell you about it. It’s only a ten minute walk from the house in London, so, unless I have something unavoidable on the same evening, I’ll be able to attend all the winter lectures for you.”

Crowley was so intrigued that he insisted on seeing Aziraphale’s notes immediately. He sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing his trousers, and looked over each page carefully. He was critical of Aziraphale’s illustrations, which he said were more artistic than technical, and he made Aziraphale read his notes aloud. He had an issue with every third line of Aziraphale’s notes. Aziraphale nearly said ‘Well who was there, you or I?’, but he didn’t. He sat there, in his nightshirt, and he read and reread each line as often as Crowley wanted, until it was the middle of the night and there was a danger that Crowley wouldn’t be able to drive home safely the next day. Still, as he put his notes away, Aziraphale felt that it was fair for him to offer a generic and mild statement to continue the spirit of the previous night’s debate. 

“The men who do this research,” said Aziraphale. “They couldn’t do it if they didn’t have resources. And the stable structure of our English society is what gives them the resources to discover things that are to the benefit of all. We’re in the midst of a revolution in human knowledge, you’ve said it yourself. And England is the centre of that revolution because of the structure of our society. If some men aren’t free to pursue science and art and all the rest, then we wouldn’t have all these advances in the human condition.”

Crowley nodded. He didn’t cede the point. He just changed the subject as he slipped off his trousers. “If you get a chance to visit the Royal Society,” he said, “See if you can get a look at the Electric Magnetic Rotation Apparatus. It has continuous motion like a steam engine, but all powered by a battery. It’s supposed to be remarkable.” 

“I will,” said Aziraphale. “And I’ll bring you a drawing of it. Anything to make you smile.”

Crowley took off his cravat and stockings and pants, then he sat on the edge of the bed next to Aziraphale. Now they were both wearing their nightshirts. They never took them off if there was a candle lit. And not always when the candle was blown out. It was safer that way, just in case they were interrupted. 

“Humans are so clever, aren’t they?”, said Crowley. “Some day there won’t even be a need to burn coal or have steam engines at all. Just clean battery powered factories. Probably won’t even need workers anymore. Then we can all be free to pursue science and art while the machines do all the work.” 

“That sounds very utopian,” said Aziraphale. “Could this be a Heaven you can actually believe in?”

“Eyah,” said Crowley. “It’s a future. Potential. Won’t be an easy road to get there. The Luddites aren’t the only ones who hate the factories, some of you aristocrats are fighting industrialization tooth and nail.”

“And why would we do that?”, said Aziraphale. “Everyone, rich and poor, benefits from these advances. The poor no longer have to spin and weave. And I’ve got so much reading material that I can scarcely keep up with what gets printed every year.”

“It’s not about having things angel,” said Crowley. “It’s about having people, having power over them, being able to tell them what to do with their bodies. I mean, I suppose you’re right. S’not aristocrats. It’s humans. All of them. People who are on top are always wanting to use the ones underneath them as their personal dolls.”

“Human dolls?”, said Aziraphale. “Ridiculous. To what end?”

Crowley’s eyes widened. He raised his eyebrows and gestured toward his lap. 

“What?”, said Aziraphale.

Crowley made a noise like a steam engine. “Just because you’re an angel,” he said, “Doesn’t mean other men are.” 

“Nooooo,” said Aziraphale. “Nobody does that. Why would they?”

“Your uncle does,” said Crowley. “You’ve told me.”

“It’s a joke,” said Aziraphale. “He makes impolite remarks about the maids.”

Crowley shook his head. “Not just him, either,” said Crowley. “Lots of men take liberties.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I would surely have heard of it,” he said. “With all the people I talk to. Nobody I know ever has relations with their servants like that.” Crowley made a solemn gesture that connected Aziraphale to himself and Aziraphale smiled a little. “Well, it must be very rare,” Aziraphale said. “There aren’t many servants who are as intelligent as you. What would the attraction even be?” 

Crowley just stared at him, with his eyebrows raised. He looked incredulous, but also something else. Upset, perhaps. Which didn’t make any sense to Aziraphale. But then Crowley often got very passionate and sometimes even upset about very theoretical things, like politics and science. 

“And if lords were simply forcing their attentions on their maids,” said Aziraphale. “YOU would have heard something. You were below stairs for over a decade.” He extended a hand to punctuate his argument. “Did you ever hear anyone speak of such a thing? Did any maid complain to you of my uncle, or of any other man for that matter?” 

Crowley was silent. He turned his head away and dropped his eyes to the floor. “They wouldn’t have spoken about it,” he mumbled

“Well then,” said Aziraphale. “Did you ever see any direct evidence that such a thing was happening, let alone that it was widespread?”

Crowley turned a bit pink and shook his head silently. He never raised his eyes from the floor.

“Then you admit that I’m right!”, said Aziraphale. 

Crowley shrugged. 

“Then the conversation is closed,” said Aziraphale triumphantly. “I’ll not hear another word on the topic.” He slid his hand up underneath the hem of Crowley’s nightshirt. “Now,” he said. “Let us break from this dreary debate and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.”

But Crowley shook him off and stood up and walked over to the basin to wash his face. 

***

September 1822 London

"It's like I have a child that's dead and at the same time he's alive," said Crowley. "I touched him, last time. He ran to me and hid behind my legs to hide from his sister in a game. And his hands were pulling at my trousers and I touched his curls with my fingers. It felt like I was in Heaven, for just a moment."

The Queen Mother held Crowley's hands. "I can't imagine how hard it is for you dear, but I can tell you this: you are lucky to be able to visit Heaven before you die. I will never hold my little Thomas on my lap again in this life, and there are still times when I find myself wishing I could be with him."

"I'm sorry, Mother," said Crowley. "I shouldn't complain to you of such things."

"Your sorrows are real, dear girl," she replied. "The more so because you have only the one child. But you need to let your joys for what you do have be as real to you as your sorrows for what you miss." said the Queen Mother. She dabbed carefully at her eyes so as not to smear her make-up. "I have three children and seven grandchildren on Earth." She raised an eyebrow. "And I need to be back downstairs soon to earn the living for all of them, so hand over this latest letter, dearie."

Crowley pulled it out of his pocket and broke the seal. He opened it, verified the familiar hand, gave it to the Queen Mother, and sat next to her on her bed while she read it aloud.

_My Dear C,_

_Adam's sibling was born this week, another brother. Adam and Brian are overjoyed to have yet another male in the family. A very strange name has been suggested for the child, and I won't commit it to paper in the hopes that the parents will come to their senses before the Christening day._

_Adam's first two months of lessons at the dame school have been, as I predicted, a great success. The ladies teaching him have found him to be charming and intelligent. He has inquired as to whether his sisters and brothers might also attend school, and I have consented to pay for his sister Pepper to attend as well. Sarah is needed at home to help with the little ones. Adam, feeling this to be unjust, has made it his project to help his older sister with her education._

_I hope that this letter finds you well and I look forward to our meeting in six months' time._

_Your Sometimes Adversary in Matters Parental,_

_A._

"That bastard did it anyway!", said Crowley. "I told him I wanted to wait a year before we started Adam in school and he just overrode me as soon as I was gone."

"Mmmhmmmm," said the Queen Mother. She handed back the letter. As Crowley paced about her bedroom, she calmly put on her wig and pinned it into place.

"I'm going to take Adam back," said Crowley. "As soon as he's old enough to be apprenticed at the stables. You see if I don't!" 

"Pass me my yellow fan, dear," said the Queen Mother. "And wipe the froth off your lips before you head downstairs."

  
  
  
  
  



	10. Little Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Adam fill Aziraphale's life with paradoxes; Young Aziraphale nearly reveals their secret relationship.

June 1824 Tadfield

The relief of it was the thing that Crowley always felt at these moments. How straight and tall Adam was. How he looked Aziraphale in the eye like an equal. That confidence must come from his whole family deferring to him. How could they not? Just by existing, he brought in almost as much quarterly income as his father. He had the best clothes, the best food, everything. He had an older sister who doted upon him and a younger sister and two younger brothers who followed him everywhere and obeyed his every command. He didn't labour yet, except for a few hours a day helping the man he knew as his father. 

And when the boy, nearly eight years old, had brought forth his reader and, standing next to Aziraphale's chair, read from it with a smoothness that Crowley had never achieved even as an adult, Crowley found himself blinking rapidly and staring out the window. Crowley stood near the wall, invisible as he had been taught to be, watching his own son act the part of the scion of a great house who was entertaining his father at tea. 

The book that Adam was reading from had been provided by Aziraphale-- it was one of the ones that Aziraphale himself had learned to read on. At Crowley’s elbow was a bookshelf, an impossible thing for a farmer’s family to have, but it was here, and it was filled with three dozen children’s books. When Adam reshelved the reader there, he brushed up against Crowley, and smiled confidently up at him before selecting another book and handing it to Aziraphale. 

"And now I shall read to you," said Aziraphale, and he opened up _Robinson_ _Crusoe_. He read to the family for an entire afternoon. His voice was rich and warm. He seemed to glow with happiness, and why shouldn’t he? His visits brought riches and prestige to the little family, and they circled around him with their faces all turned to him as if he were an angel from the heavens in his cream-colored linen tailcoat with his lilac waistcoat made of embroidered silk. 

When he finished reading, he smiled on all of the children, but he spoke to Adam particularly. "And now you know the pleasures that await you, my lad," he said. “As you become more fluent in your reading.” Aziraphale pulled a shiny half sovereign from the air behind Adam’s ear and handed it to the boy. "Choose some ribbons for your sisters and let your mother buy some sturdy cloth for your clothing with the rest." 

After the children went outside, he gave Dierdre Young a bag which looked a bit heavier than his usual payment. "To pay for his lessons," said Aziraphale. "And his shoes."

That night, in their little room in the inn in Tadfield, Aziraphale mused about how clever Adam was.

“Pepper can read well too,” said Crowley.

“I know,” said Aziraphale. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

“Why?”, said Crowley.

“Well, one doesn’t expect that from a farmer’s child. It’s fortuitous that that sort of unusual thing should happen in the very family that we selected for Adam to grow up in.”

Crowley grunted. It wasn’t even worth the argument. He’d learned to let go of a lot of things over the past few years. Adam was happy in his home. And Adam was good enough at school that there was no danger of him being beaten or humiliated by his teachers. If anything, schooling had made him more confident and happy. Which was the only thing that mattered, really. He had the very life his mother would have wanted for him. It had all been worth it. 

“I can't help but feel it's Adam’s influence,” said Aziraphale, “It seems to me that Adam has inherited his father’s tendency to miraculously subvert the normal order of things.”

***

  
  


November 1812 

A Hidden Field Three Miles From Empyrean Hall

They had been lovers for nearly seven weeks. Other than their four rides in the phaeton, they'd managed just under two hours of private conversation in total. And somehow in those precious stolen minutes, Crowley's angel kept giving him new reasons to fall in love. Crowley had just climbed into the carriage in the middle of their hidden field when Azirahale asked him an important question.

"My dear," said Aziraphale. "Why do you look unhappy when I say your first name? It's subtle, but I've noticed."

"Egadahhh uh," said Crowley. How to condense his complicated thoughts about his own name into few enough words that they’d still have time for acts of love? He couldn't even figure out where to begin. 

"Is there another name you prefer me to use?", said Aziraphale. 

And Crowley wasted half of one of their precious minutes with his jaw open, just studying the open and loving expression on Aziraphale's face. 

"How did you know, angel? How do you always know? I like Crowley. That's what I call myself, in my own mind."

"Then Crowley you shall be. I rather like it. As if you were my valet. You might have been, if it hadn't been for your accident. Then I could have said 'Crowley come over here and undress me!' whenever I like."

"Oh, you are an insatiable creature!", said Crowley. And he did as he was told.

Two days later, hidden in a folly on the grounds of Empyrean Hall, they picked up the thread of the conversation as they straightened up their clothes.

"I don't think facial scars should matter in a valet," said Aziraphale, as he buttoned his waistcoat. "He doesn't often interact with people outside the household, and he doesn't serve at table. He spends most of his time below stairs or in his master's rooms."

"But he is seen," said Crowley. "And he is a reflection on his master."

"Well I can't think of anyone in the world that is a better reflection upon me than yourself Crowley. Would you want the job, if it were offered?"

"Lady Sandalphon wouldn't allow it," said Crowley. 

"And who is the heir, she or I?", said Aziraphale. "What she wants doesn't matter. My uncle has wanted me to hire a valet for all this time. I can't imagine him objecting."

"But I can, Aziraphale. I don't think you should get your hopes up about this. And please stop whatever you think you’re doing to that poor cravat and just untie it and start over."

"Do you or do you not want to share my rooms?", said Aziraphale. 

"Of course I do, Aziraphale. You’re doing it backwards."

"Well, I don't exactly have a mirror here."

"Let me just redo it for you."

"You're obviously well qualified for the job."

"Yerrrgh," said Crowley. "Hold still."

"You don’t want to be my valet, do you?"

"It's complicated, Aziraphale. There."

"Is it a barrel knot? I had a barrel knot when I started out."

"Yes, it’s a barrel knot. I'm not an idiot. It looks exactly the same. No one will know I ravished you." Crowley took Aziraphale’s hat down from where it had been resting, on the head of a statue of Heracles. "Can't we talk about this again next time?" 

"Why can't we talk now?”

“Brush off your breeches, you’ve gotten some mould on the knees.”

"You're putting me off, Crowley! I know you are. You aren't fooling me."

"We need to go. You're already overdue for tea."

"Well, I'm also overdue to be had in a warm bed."

"You head out first,” said Crowley. “And if there’s anyone about, prattle at them about antiquities till you’ve run them off." 

***

Crowley was the most fascinating man that Aziraphale had ever known. He could barely read, but he was witty in a way that servants never normally were and he knew things about the science of astronomy that Aziraphale had never even heard of. And he was an amazing lover. He could do things with his fingers that sent Aziraphale over the moon, (which, he was assured, was two hundred forty thousand miles away), and when they had the time to let things get past fingers, Aziraphale sometimes thought he was likely to reach the stars (whose distances he still couldn’t comprehend). How could a man who could barely read understand science? How could a man who had never read Plato know how to be a lover to another man? How could a stablehand be the master to his own master? The paradoxes were baffling to Aziraphale, and he turned them over and over in his mind. 

Crowley’s history might hold the key to the mysteries. He'd worked as a house servant at Empyrean Hall, as had his mother before him. All the footmen knew him, and they were uneasy about him. There had been an incident, and he'd been seriously scarred. Then he'd started a second career in the stables. But whatever had happened, whether an accident or an attack, it was not something the servants would speak of. And a brief conversation in a dark storage building or hayloft was hardly going to be sufficient to get the story from Crowley.

Having to get to know his lover through little five minute snippets of whispered conversation was intensely frustrating to Aziraphale, because, every day, he was obliged to spend multiple hours in conversation with relatives he hated, mincing past their verbal knives and trying desperately not to be cut. In self defense, he had been forced to memorize everything about their lives, including the details of every petty disagreement any of them had ever had, all the way back to an argument over a broken doll that two of his elderly aunts had had in their girlhood. And yet, when it came to the one person he actually wanted to get to know better, he knew almost nothing. He'd hadn't even known what name to call Crowley until just days ago. 

It wasn't fair to know the feel of having the man inside of him, and not know the secrets of his heart. To know that someone had taught Crowley all the skills of a lover, and to not know who that man had been. To have praised the name Anthony for nearly seven weeks, and then to find out that it had been the wrong name all along.

He should have known better, but the injustice of the situation galled him so much that Aziraphale made an impetuous play for the thing he wanted. And he overplayed his hand, and lost badly.

Aziraphale had calculated that his position as the heir and the smallness of the request would mean that Gabriel would be inclined to grant it. This had been correct. He also calculated that, since she was under the great strain of preparing two of her nieces to come out in the upcoming season (which was mere weeks away) Lady Sandalphon wouldn't want to be bothered with a confrontation over his choice of Crowley as a valet. After all, her dislike of Aziraphale was contemptuous and distant, whereas her passion for fashion and society were strong. In this he completely miscalculated, because he had not understood how very deeply Lady Sandalphon hated Crowley. 

The night that Aziraphale asked his uncle to take the scarred groom back into the house as a valet was filled with screaming and violent threats. Her ladyship's rage toppled a dozen objects off of Gabriel’s desk and onto the floor. Aziraphale had stood frozen like a rabbit in the corner while she howled and roared. She claimed that Aziraphale wanted to spite her by bringing Crowley back. She said that she'd see Crowley horsewhipped if he set foot in her path. And Gabriel had tilted his head and said in the most reasonable tone of voice: "We certainly can't put my sister through all of that suffering just so you can have a good feeling from helping out a hard luck case. Drop some extra money on the collection plate on Sunday if you want to feel good about yourself."

***

The day after Azriaphale's confrontation with Lady Sandalphon, Crowley and Aziraphale were parked in their favorite field, hiding in the carriage, stealing twenty minutes of time from a visit to congratulate a tenant on a new baby. No lovemaking at all had happened between them today, nor would it. They weren't even touching. Aziraphale was sitting on the bench opposite Crowley. He was slumping in his seat with his shoulders hunched up nearly his ears as Crowley berated him. But he was holding back his tears and answering back to every accusation.

"I told you not to talk to your uncle about it," said Crowley.

"You did NOT. You most certainly did not say that. Your exact words were--"

"Who the Hell cares what my exact words were? You knew there was a complexity to the situation, and you went and just opened the topic with THEM without even waiting to hear what I had to say."

"I thought you perhaps were afraid to ask about being my valet, and I thought--"

"And WHAT in anything I said suggested to you that I didn't want to be your valet?"

"You didn't say yes right away, so I--"

"So you thought you'd entrap me, make the earl be the one who ordered me to work in your bedrooms, so I'd be less likely to refuse?"

"Well, no, I intended to give you the choice--"

"How magnanimous of you, my lord."

At that moment, Aziraphale's eyes finally overflowed. "You make me sound so awful," he said, "When I only intended to make things better for us. I want to be able to be with you every night. With a locked door between us and the household. Isn't that what you want too?"

"I never expect to get very much of what I want, Aziraphale," said Crowley. He pressed his lips together and shook his head very slowly. "Now that you've endangered us, the consequence is that we'll need to see a lot less of each other in the next few weeks."

"But they wouldn't suspect--"

"Oh, wouldn't they? Shall I bet my life on that?"

Aziraphale shook his head mutely. Then he covered his face with his hands. Crowley accepted this as an apology and pulled him over to himself. Aziraphale fell to his knees in the cramped little carriage and put his face in Crowley's lap and sobbed. Crowley bent over him and covered his hair with kisses.

"In two weeks I leave for London and we'll be parted till nearly summer." 

"Yes," said Crowley. 

"I'm so sorry," said Aziraphale. "I was so hopeful that I could take you with me to London as my valet; I didn't anticipate-- Oh Crowley, what did you do to anger my aunt so very much? She says she never wants you to set foot above stairs again."

"What did I do?”, said Crowley. He drew himself up straight and took his hands off of his lover. “What did I do to that woman? Best ask what she did to me." 

"What did she do?"

"This!", said Crowley. He turned his face to show his scars.

"But why would she attack a servant? Did you provoke her?"

"I can't listen to you defend her," said Crowley. 

"I'm not defending her,” said Aziraphale. He was still on his knees on the floor of the carriage. “I just want to understand what happened."

"There's nothing to understand, Aziraphale. Lady Sandalphon is a monster." He shoved past Aziraphale, opened the door of the carriage, and jumped to the ground. "Clean yourself up. Best not to show up looking like you've been crying. People might talk."

***

  
  


First week of December, 1812

The Stables at Empyrean Hall

"Mr. Fell, welcome back to the yard," said Crowley.

"Good to see you, Anthony," said Aziraphale.

"How was Ganymede for you today?"

"Actually, I'm worried about leaving him for the winter," said Aziraphale.

"Help you down, sir?"

"Thank you, Anthony."

"Not to worry, about your horse, sir," said Crowley. "He'll still be here for you when you get home. And he'll love you as much as ever." He kept his voice hearty and cheerful even though his own heart was breaking to see the devastated look on Aziraphale’s face. How he wanted to reach out. But instead, he stepped back, leaving a clear two feet of space between their bodies. 

"Thank you, Anthony,” said Aziraphale. “That's a comfort to hear. But I'm not worried about him loving me when I return. He's very faithful and sweet. I'm worried about myself. I don't know how I'll live without him--" He burst into tears.

"Mr. Fell!", said Crowley. "Get ahold of yourself, sir.” He muttered: "Men are starting to stare." 

The stableman came running across the yard. "Oi!", said Mr. Hales, "What's wrong with Mr. Fell? Did he do himself an injury out riding? Sir? Are you well?"

"It's nothing," said Aziraphale. "Nothing to worry about. Thank you." But he was obviously crying uncontrollably. Crowley couldn't touch him or even look him in the eye. He just had to stand there while Aziraphale had a nervous breakdown within arms’ reach. And just in case Aziraphale reached out to him, even if just by instinct, Crowley took two more steps away and put the horse's body between himself and his beloved. 

"Why don't you come sit down in the tack room, sir," said the stableman. "I'll have tea brought. Anthony will take care of your Ganymede. Come right this way sir."

Never had Ganymede been cleaned up faster or the tack wiped down less thoroughly. Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s voice from the tack room, and he couldn't tell what Aziraphale might be saying. He cursed himself for falling in love with an impulsive eighteen-year-old. But what choice had he had? It had been fate that deemed that his true love would be so young. Right now, poor Aziraphale was probably blubbering out the words that would spell death for Crowley and disinheritance for himself. Crowley had half a mind to steal a fast horse and ride for his life. The other half of his mind wanted to rush into the tack room and pull Aziraphale into his arms and cover him with kisses. He knew that if he did either of those things he was equally doomed. He turned his eyes to the ceiling. 'Please, God,' he muttered. 'Show us a miracle.'

"Anthony!", said Mr. Hales. 

"Sir?", said Crowley. He walked on trembling legs toward the tack room. At least he could use his last moment of freedom to look at Aziraphale and memorize his face. The price of true love was steep, but worth it, no matter what came next. Crowley hoped it would be hanging. Hanging only took two minutes or so. He could keep a picture of Aziraphale in his mind for two minutes. That would make it hurt less. Probably. 'Please, God,' he whispered in his heart. 'Don't let them flog me to death.'

The stableman met Crowley at the door. "I'm going to fetch help from the Hall," he said. "You stay with Mr. Fell. See if you can't calm him down."

Crowley nearly fainted with relief.

He entered the little room. Aziraphale was sitting on a chest, his hands pressed together in his lap, trembling and rocking back and forth like a terrified child. There was a cup of tea sitting next to him on the chest and he was ignoring it. When Crowley walked into the room, he looked up. "Crowley!", he said. 

There were a half-dozen people in earshot. There were three doors in this room. They led to the yard, the stables, and the dinning room for the barn servants. Every door had at least one person peering through it to watch the heir of Empyrean Hall have a nervous breakdown. Every one of them had heard Aziraphale call him by his last name. 

"Anthony, sir," he said. "You must call me Anthony."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "I'm sorry. That was a terrible mistake. I shouldn't--"

"Not to worry, sir," said Crowley. Then he shouted to all who were near. "His lordship needs privacy!" He gestured at the door to the dining room and picked up the teacup. "This way, sir. Let's get you someplace comfortable." 

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "Thank you." Crowley didn’t dare try to help Aziraphale to his feet. He kept his distance and watched Aziraphale struggle to get his shaking legs under him and make his way across the floor. 

Once they were alone in the dining room, with the doors safely shut, Crowley helped Aziraphale into a cushioned chair. When Aziraphale pulled at his sleeves he ignored it. He found some rum, poured a generous measure of it into the teacup, and set the warm cup down on the table at Aziraphale’s elbow. He stood in front of Aziraphale, at a distance that was proper for a servant. He kept an eye on all the windows and doors. He spoke very quietly.

"Good now? Calm?"

"I'm so sorry," said Aziraphale. “I became overwhelmed when I saw you. I'm so afraid, Crowley. You've been the only thing that's kept me from losing my mind in this place. Even before we ever touched. I used to watch you from the windows. I used to think about you and pretend we were friends."

"I know," said Crowley. "I felt the same. Ever since you came. But you need to pull yourself together for me, Aziraphale. You do understand why you can’t fall apart like this? My very life is in your hands.”

Aziraphale blanched. Then he started shaking even more. Crowley bent over in front of him and held the tea and rum to his lips. “Just a sip,” he said. “There you go. No, don’t reach for me. Take the cup.” 

Crowley stood back up, watched the doors and the windows. He watched Aziraphale sip. When the color returned to his face, Crowley said: “Now tell me exactly what you told the stableman." 

"That I didn't want to go to London. That's all I said. I would never betray you. I’d die first."

Crowley’s shoulders sagged in relief. He kept his eyes on the windows. The milkmaid walked by, slowly, and she looked into the window; her eyes widened when she saw the heir sitting in the barn servants' dining room. 

"But Crowley, I can't,” said Aziraphale. “I can't do it. I can't be with them for all those months with no respite and no friend by my side. You don’t know how cruel they can be."

"Shhhhh,” said Crowley. “You'll read. You'll read constantly. That will be your respite." 

“Three days, Crowley. That’s all we have left. I need to hold you again before I depart.”

“Hush,” said Crowley. He watched Aziraphale drink the warm liquid. Aziraphale was drinking slowly, raising his head between sips and searching Crowley’s face as if there were some kind of answer to be had there as to why the world was so exquisitely cruel. Crowley stood sentry over his true love with his hands behind his back to keep from being tempted to touch him. How he wished he had the answers. 

“I would marry you,” said Aziraphale. “If such a thing were possible.”

There it was. The answer. 

“Then let’s make it possible,” said Crowley.

“How?”

“Hestia’s temple,” said Crowley. “Day after tomorrow. Two o’clock. Bring a Bible. We’ll swear our vows on it.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. He set his tea down and clasped his hands together. His eyes shone bright. “Yes.”

Some people passed the window, and Crowley held up a hand to signal to Aziraphale. A minute later there was the sound of footsteps outside, and then there was a knock at the door, and the stableman was there with Michael. 

Michael strode into the room. His eyes slid past Crowley and he looked down at his cousin with undisguised contempt. “Shall we call a doctor for you, cousin?”

“He looks much better,” said Hales. “Our Anthony has worked another miracle.” 


	11. Binary Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In preparation for Aziraphale's departure to London, Aziraphale and Crowley get married in a very private ceremony.

CW: So much misogyny.

  
  


Crowley and the stableman watched Michael and Aziraphale walk back up the hill to the Hall until they were out of sight. 

"Well, you handled that situation well," said Mr. Hales. "He looked like a new man when I returned."

"Eyah," said Crowley. "Just gave him some rum. Ergh. Uh. Can I get going?"

"Oh," said the stableman. "It's past time for your afternoon off. You'd better head out. What do you plan to do today?"

"Village," said Crowley. "Shopping." And he raced upstairs to pull his money out of the secret compartment in his mattress. 

Crowley had no time to mess about. He was getting married in two days. His afternoon free time today was only two and a half hours, and he had to get to the village and back. He wasn't allowed to take any of the family horses off the estate. Also, he mustn't be seen to run or look disheveled, as that would reflect badly on the family. So walking was his only option. Walking quickly. And choosing a wedding gift quickly and walking quickly back. 

He was barely out of sight of the yard when the stableboy came running towards him, screaming: "Areion is down with colic! You're needed right away!"

Crowley ran back to the stables to find Mr. Hales with one of the big black geldings that pulled the carriages. The horse was swishing his tail and kicking at his own belly. “Thank goodness you’re still here, Anthony!”, said Hales. “It happened while we were all distracted with the young heir’s troubles. I hope that your magic touch extends to colic. We’re in for a long afternoon. I just dosed him; we’ll have to take turns walking him up and down.” 

It was a terrible afternoon. Areion was sweating and kicking out in pain as they forced him to walk in circles around the yard. He bit one of the other grooms and nearly knocked old Mr. Hales over. It was Crowley who ended up doing the majority of the work. He managed to give the black gelding a second dose of mineral oil and of black draught and to get him to drink a little water. For three horrific hours, with the earl himself looking on for part of it, Crowley dragged the pain-tortured animal around and around the cold yard, dodging kicks and bites and smacking him with a whip whenever he tried to throw himself to the ground. Finally, the poor animal managed to pass his droppings, and then there was another hour of walking him and giving him water with epsom salts before he could safely be returned to his box. The sun had long since set when Crowley finally collapsed on a crate in the tack room. 

The stableman apologized to him for his missed hours off. "That's bad luck to you, Anthony," he said. "You'll have to do your errand on Thursday afternoon."

Thursday afternoon was when Crowley and Aziraphale were getting married. Crowley did his very best to hide his enormous disappointment at having to go to his wedding day with no gift at all for his beloved. He could tell he hadn't succeeded because the stableman kept consoling him.

"Terrible strange day, wasn't it?", he said. "First the young master has a nervous attack, and then we almost lose Areion. Makes me uneasy. Bad things always come in threes." 

***

"An attack of hysteria," said Michael. "Like a woman. And don't forget how he failed to collect the full rent from the Turners in September because Mrs. Turner cried in front of him."

"I don't know how you expect him to keep us after you're gone," said Lady Sandalphon to the earl. "He'll run the estate into the ground." 

Aziraphale was sitting at tea with his family: Gabriel, Lady Sandalphon, Michael, Uriel, his old aunts and all the younger girls. The others were talking about Aziraphale as if he wasn't even there. 

"Too soft-hearted," said his old aunt, Lady Netzach.

"He’s more feminine than some of the girls,” said Michael. 

“Comes from being raised without a father in the home for his first five years," said Aunt Patience. 

The old earl spoke over them all: "But it's not too late for him to learn," Gabriel said. “And he will.”

"Yes, sir," said Aziraphale. It was the only safe thing to say. 

At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and the butler entered and whispered into Gabriel's ear. 

"Michael," said Gabriel. "Come with me. One of the carriage horses has taken ill. Aziraphale, you stay here. You shouldn't be seen at the stables again until we return in the spring." 

They left, leaving Aziraphale to finish tea with the women and girls. 

"Servants talk, Aziraphale," said Lady Sandalphon. "Your disgraceful behavior will be gossip throughout the estate and even down in the village all winter. You are lucky we're taking you with us to London so that you can escape your shame."

"Yes, ma'am," said Aziraphale. 

“Why does he get to go to London when I don’t?”, said fourteen year old Helena. 

"He hardly seems ashamed at all," said Uriel Fell. 

He wasn't. Aziraphale had a little bubble of happiness in his chest, buoying him up. He was getting married in two days. It would be the most private possible ceremony, but still it was wonderful. He needed a Bible and a ring. And something handsome to wear. And vows. He ought to write something different than the usual ones that men and women took. That might require some research in the library after everyone had gone to bed. Perhaps there would be something in the Greek section for dealing with this sort of situation. He thought about this while he sat with his horrible relatives.

Thinking about Crowley had been Aziraphale's survival strategy almost from the beginning. At first, he had gotten through the hours of tedious self-referential Fell family conversations by thinking about Anthony Crowley's handsomeness and the mystery of his scars. Later, he discovered that intimate encounters with Crowley gave him a six-hour emotional shield that caused all verbal jabs and insults to simply bounce off of him with no impact whatsoever. The evening after the first time that Crowley had properly fucked him, Lady Sandalphon nearly lost her mind at Aziraphale's impossible patience against her cruelty. She'd finally called him a madman and stormed off. 

Winter in London would be terrible, Aziraphale was sure of it. There would be nothing but balls and social events where he was expected to strike a balance between entertaining young marriageable girls and not leading any of them to expect that they had any real chance at getting a piece of the Fell fortune. It sounded dreadful. And he’d have to do it all without his lover by his side. He’d be completely alone. What a man with his own sort of proclivities could possibly get up to in a big city was beyond his imagination. He’d probably just sit home and read all day. 

London was a terrible place, he’d heard. Outside of the few safe neighbourhoods where the gentry lived, the rest of the city was full of thieves and prostitutes and the kind of men who were so degenerate that nobody would even speak of what sorts of terrible things they did. Even the theatre district and the public parks weren’t safe from degenerates. Lady Sandalphon kept cautioning the girls about the need to stay close together on all outings lest they catch a glimpse of unspeakable things happening in the very streets. And poor Aziraphale would be stuck in this hellscape all alone without Crowley. 

He wouldn't be able to send Crowley letters, and not just for the obvious reason. Crowley was barely literate. Aziraphale had found this out when he'd slipped Crowley a love note. A week later, in conversation, it came out that the poor fellow hadn't been able to puzzle out all the words of it. Crowley had been so embarrassed. But he'd brought the note to their next meeting and made Aziraphale read it to him again and again until he'd memorized it. 

The inability to read made no sense, given Crowley's obvious intelligence and how long he had worked in service for the Fells. The Fells, for all their faults, valued education. All of the upper servants in the household could read well, and that translated on down the ranks. Aziraphale hadn't been able to discover how Crowley's education had been overlooked. The man had been a footman for years. He was clearly fascinated with astronomy and history and fables, and yet he could hardly read English. It was just another mystery about Crowley that wouldn't be solved before they were parted. 

But separated though they must be, Aziraphale would at least be married to the one he loved. As married as a man with his proclivities could be. And, as awful a place as London would doubtless be, while he was exiled there he would have a secret joy in his heart, the joy of knowing that he was joined forever with the most loving and wonderful man in the world. Nothing would keep them apart for long. Surely, in a few years, when the old earl died at last, Aziraphale could take possession of all of Empyrean Hall, send Lady Sandalphon to the dower house, kick the others out to live in the cottages, and then enjoy long evenings of privacy alone with his valet. He would teach Crowley to read, then they'd hide together in his room at night and work through the books of Empyrean Hall's great library as they sat side by side in front of the fire. That was a future to look forward to. And a secret marriage was the first step towards guaranteeing that beautiful future. 

"Aziraphale Fell,” said Lady Sandalphon. “Do you understand what I am telling you about what is expected of you in London?”

"Yes Ma'am," said Aziraphale. "While I’m in London, I will give constant consideration to thoughts of my own marriage.”

***

Crowley put the cleaned tack into the chest and shut the top. His duties for the day were done at last.

"Are you coming in this round, Anthony?", said one the other grooms. "Ha' penny ante."

"Naw," Crowley said. "Bed for me. Too much excitement today."

"What did he say? Young Fell? Did he say what happened? Was it a woman? It's always a woman."

"Eeeeyhh," said Crowley. "Didn't say really. Probly was somethin' like that. Eyah. Night, lads."

He took a candle and climbed the stairs to the dormitory. The stableboys were already asleep in their little corner of the room. He lay on his own bed and pulled the sheet off the corner of the mattress. He felt along the seam for a slight hole and pulled it open. Then he slid his fingers in and pulled out a pouch that was the size of his palm. In it was an envelope with a lock of hair and a light blue ribbon. And also a smaller pouch of coins. His secret treasures. He kissed the lock of hair. 

"My angel," he said. "How I wish I had something to give you." 

He put the lock of hair and the money back into his hiding place and closed the little flap. He tucked the sheet in and laid his hand on the lump to feel that it was in the right place in the mattress. He looked up at the little shelf that contained all his worldly possessions: a box with a razor, comb, scissors and other necessities, a pair of Sunday gloves, a half-dozen handkerchiefs, and two piles of magazines: his astronomy magazines. Everything else in his little corner of the dormitory, including almost all of his clothes, already belonged to Fell's family, and would belong to Aziraphale in time. 

"Heigh ho," said Anthony Crowley. 

He took the magazines and the box and one of the handkerchiefs and set them on his bed. First, he put a tiny dab of his new pomade on the center of the handkerchief to give it his scent. Then he flipped through his astronomy magazines. He found his favourite. It was the one where he had memorized the words of the titles of each article and knew most of the articles very well. There was an article about Uranus and its location relative to the other planets. There was also an article about binary stars. This was his absolute favourite article of all time. He could read it, after a fashion, because he'd once paid the first footman to read the entire article to him ten times until he'd nearly memorized it. Squinting in the candlelight, Crowley slowly read the article about the binary stars one last time. He whispered the words to himself because hearing them aloud helped him read. Then he carefully rolled up his favorite astronomy magazine and tied his scented handkerchief around it to secure it. He bit his lip. He could feel his eyes watering. All he had to give felt like so very little. 

***

The clocks in the house struck four AM and Aziraphale was still in the library, sitting at an enormous mahogany desk with ten drawers. On the desk were seventeen Bibles and books of prayer. On the shelves on all four walls of the room were nearly ten thousand books belonging to the Fell family's private collection. 

It had taken Aziraphale hours to choose the right book to swear upon. Some of the holy books he had considered had been passed down through many generations of his family and others were quite new. There were two copies of the Bishop's Bible. There were two different Roman Catholic Bibles. A Geneva Bible. There was a regular King James Bible and a King James that had a funny misprint: "Thou Shalt Commit Adultery". There were several different editions of the Book of Common Prayer. There was a Qur’an, too, in English translation. And each book had at least one inscription which lent it its own unique history. It was a conundrum to be sure. Finally, Aziraphale decided upon the King James with the misprint. Aziraphale didn’t know much about James I, but he imagined that King James would have been absolutely scandalized by the thought of two men solemnizing a marriage. And Crowley would find the misprint funny. He seemed to have a very individualistic interpretation of religion. The inscription in the front of this Bible was very nice as well. It said: "Love never fails. Where there are prophecies, they will cease, where there are tongues they will be stilled." That seemed an appropriate sentiment. 

Once the holy book had been chosen, Aziraphale had needed to find the marriage rites in the Book of Common Prayer. He read them three times, and then he took out a quill. 

'Got to be short and to the point,' said Aziraphale to himself. 'Not much time to be had in our ceremony. Don't need the bit about the congregation. Skip that bit about children, we certainly won't be having them. The law-- well, that's dreadfully depressing to think about. Maybe best to just skip everything except the "have and hold" bits. And this part: “God be merciful unto us and bless us." Oh I do hope he does.' 

Aziraphale finished the vows, made a fresh copy of them, sealed it with wax, and burned all the scratched up copies in the fireplace. He carefully rearranged all of the holy books back onto their shelf so that the missing Bible wouldn't be noticed. Then he double and triple checked the room to make sure he had left no evidence. He tucked the misprint Bible under his arm and carried it upstairs. 

***

It was a clear and cold afternoon on the first Thursday of December when Crowley made his way across the grounds and ducked into a folly that had been made to look like a miniature temple to the goddess Hestia. The folly had been locked and unused for decades, but Aziraphale had liberated the key a month ago. 

The folly was a little round stone building with elaborate columns all round it. In the centre of the columns was a round room with a stone wall all around and some high windows near the ceiling. The door to the room was a narrow metal thing with an open grate at the top. When Crowley arrived at the folly, the metal door was open, just a crack. 

In the centre of Hestia’s little temple was a waist high stone platform with a grate where a fire could be built; some stone benches formed a circle around the fire area. When Crowley entered the temple, he saw that the grate had been removed from the platform and it had been transformed into an altar. A cloth had been laid over it and there was a single candle burning on the altar. The room was very dim, but strong beams of light came from the windows on the south side and made slanted columns of bright white that cut through the room.

Aziraphale turned around when Crowley entered, and when he stepped in front of one of the beams of light, his face and hair lit up like a halo and light streamed between his arms and his body, outlining him brilliantly. 

"My dear," Aziraphale said. "Happy wedding day." 

"Beautiful," said Crowley. Aziraphale was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. He was a perfect little dandy. His face was smooth and unlined and glowing with happiness. He was wearing a lovely dark blue tailcoat and tan breeches and a waterfall cravat and a black top hat.

When Crowley rested his calloused hands on the fine wool of the sleeves of Aziraphale's tailcoat, his hands were lit up by the beam of sunlight and he saw that, after all, he'd not managed to get all the dirt out from his nail beds. He cringed as he realized this, but then a soft hand was on the side of his scarred cheek, lifting his face up. He looked into the bright blue eyes of a soft, clean, aristocrat who wanted him, who loved him as he was, and who wanted to be married to him. 

"Shall we?", said Aziraphale. 

"Errryeah," said Crowley. He felt as if he might drown at any moment. None of it seemed possible. The day before yesterday he had thought he was going to die and now he had been invited into this dimly-lit corner of Heaven. His eyes adjusted to the light in the temple and he saw that there was a Bible, a sealed letter, and a little box all laid out on the pretty blue altar cloth. The cloth was jacquard, and not machine made either. The edges of the pages of the Bible were all covered in gold leaf, and they were glinting with reflected candle light. The lid of the little box was glimmering too, because it had a mother of pearl inlay in a complex geometric pattern. Crowley felt like he was being tossed in a storm. How could all this be for him? “Eeeeeyyyhhh," he said. "Am I? Is this, urrgh, what you want? Are you certain?"

The angel looked him in the eyes and said: "Yes. Absolutely certain."

Crowley nodded. He cleared his throat. "What do we do?", he asked.

Aziraphale moved the candle back to make some space on the altar. He opened the Bible to a page near the last quarter of the book where a passage had been marked by a yellow ribbon. Then he opened the little black box. Inside were two gold rings. One had a white flower made of tiny pearls arranged around a central diamond and the other was gold in an intricate shape with a shield and some feathers.

"I'll have proper rings made," said Aziraphale. "When I get to London. But these can stand in as placeholders, until I can. The one with the flower made of pearls and diamond was my grandmother's wedding ring. My mother gave it to me to give to my future bride. It isn't a style for a man, but I want you to keep it. Even after I get you a man's ring." He wetted his lips and rubbed them together, a nervous gesture. "I know that you can't wear it, but I wanted to give it to you to show you that I'm very serious. That I won't leave you for a woman." He cleared his throat a little. "I hope it's acceptable?"

"Aziraphale," said Crowley. "It's perfect." He was agog. 

Aziraphale unsealed the envelope. “I had to write our own service,” he said. “Do you want to review it?”

“No,” said Crowley. He knew that Aziraphale’s service would be perfect, because he knew that this union was divinely ordained. 

Aziraphale took Crowley's hand in his own and placed their clasped hands on the Bible. 

"First Corinthians, thirteenth verse," Aziraphale said, indicating the passage that their hands rested on. "You know it?" 

" 'S the one about love mattering the most," said Crowley. "More than any other gift or ability that God bestows." If Crowley had been the one to choose, that would have been the verse he would have chosen to swear over. It was one of the verses he actually really liked. There weren't many of those. And the fact that Aziraphale had chosen it made him trust in this love all the more. He realized that his other hand, the one that wasn’t being held on the Bible, was trembling by his side. 

"Ahem," said Aziraphale. "Do you come here of your own free will to be joined unto me in marriage?"

"Yes," said Crowley. 

The ceremony was short and the vows were familiar. Crowley swore to love, honor, and cherish Aziraphale in sickness and in health till death and Aziraphale did the same. They put the rings on the smallest fingers of their left hands, because that was where they fit. As a gentleman, Aziraphale would be able to wear his ring all the time. Crowley would wear his just for the next half-hour or so. 

When they kissed, they both started to cry. Then they laughed and kissed again. They sank down onto a stone bench to kiss some more but the cold on their bottoms soon drove them to stand. They made love in the simplest way they could, with hands slipped under one another’s garments as they leaned up against the wall. The room was lit by candlelight from Hestia's altar and shafts of light from windows above. They pressed their bodies together to protect each other from the cold December air. When they were finished, they rested in each other's arms until bliss gave way to shivering. 

"Wait!", said Crowley. "I've a present for you. It's not much. It's not that I couldn't afford a ring. I do have nearly fifty pounds owed me from the Hall, but, you know, couldn't get out to the shops in time. Just as well, really, we might want to save the money to buy land someday . . ." He trailed off, feeling foolish, but Aziraphale rescued him. 

"I thought I felt something under your coat," said Azriphale. “What is it?”

"It's this," said Crowley, and he pulled out the rolled-up astronomy magazine. 

Aziraphale carried the present to the altar, set it down on cloth and slid the handkerchief off. He unrolled it and peered at it under the candle light. Then he carried it over and held it under a shaft of sunlight. He said: "I wouldn’t have guessed that you subscribed to magazines."

"I do," said Crowley. "This one is my favorite issue. I want you to have it. I want you to read it all. Then when we get back together in June, we'll have something to talk about."

"Would you want me to read it aloud to you?", said Aziraphale. "When we get back together?"

"I'd love that," said Crowley. "It's such a wonderful magazine. I order it from London. When you get some place that has better light, you'll be able to read it for yourself. Light! Did you know that the stars give off invisible types of light that can't be seen by the eye at all?”

“I did not,” said Aziraphale.

“And the stars, they might look like little lonely dots but they aren't lonely. Some of them are in pairs. Pairs of stars that orbit each other. Can you imagine? Might be more of them are in pairs than are alone. The sun is alone, but I think being alone isn't a natural state for a star. They're meant to be in twos. Like people. Like us."

"What a wonderful man you are," said Aziraphale. “And what a wonderful gift this is.” 

"When you come home," said Crowley. "We can meet in our field, at night. It will be warm then, so we can lay out a blanket. You can be on your back; I'll take you slowly while you watch the stars over my shoulder." 

"I doubt I'll be able to pay attention to the stars, my dear," said Aziraphale. They fell to kissing again. But the cold wouldn't be denied. And when Aziraphale pulled out his watch, they both realized that Crowley was in danger of being late returning to work. 

"We should--" said Aziraphale. He gestured at the props of their marriage ceremony. 

"Yeah," said Crowley. He sucked his lips in and nodded. 

"Let me . . ." said Aziraphale. He took the length of yellow ribbon that had bookmarked the Bible. "For your ring," he said. "We can tie it around your neck."

"Can't wear it round my neck," said Crowley. "I share a dormitory with eight people. They'd see."

"Just to take it home," said Aziraphale. Crowley nodded and allowed Aziraphale to draw the ring from his finger and thread it onto the ribbon. Aziraphale's fingers were cold. When he tied the knot at the back of Crowley's neck, he fumbled it a few times. When he was done, Crowley brought the knot round to the front to double check that it was fast. Then he tucked the ribbon under the back of his collar and worked it under his shirt in the front. 

"There's a lump that will show through the shirt," said Aziraphale. "You'll need to be careful about taking off your coat."

"Good thing that it's a cold day," said Crowley. They both laughed. It wasn't really funny. But they needed to laugh. 

Aziraphale slipped the ring box into his pocket. He wrapped the Bible and the magazine together in the blue cloth and slipped them into his leather satchel. Then he picked up the paper with their very own ceremony and vows and set it on the altar next to Hestia's candle.

"Have to burn this," said Aziraphale. "Shame. I'd have wanted to keep it always." He picked up the paper and held it to the flame. As the paper burned, he accidentally let the flame lick his fingers. He shrieked, dropped the flaming paper onto the altar, and started waving his fingers in the air. Crowley snatched his hand and pressed his fingertips onto the edge of the altar.

"The stone is colder than the air," said Crowley. 

"Hurts," said Aziraphale. 

"Might be able to avoid a blister," said Crowley. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and held his hand down. "Just have to hold it there for a few minutes."

"I'm catching a chill," said Aziraphale. Crowley opened his long coat and pulled Aziraphale inside it and held him. They cuddled and shivered and watched the candle. 

"You aren't supposed to let the flame go out in her temple," said Aziraphale. "It's bad luck."

"But we can't leave it burning," said Crowley. "No trace, right?" 

"True," said Aziraphale.

"Don't worry," said Crowley. And he took Aziraphale's uninjured hand and held it over his heart. "The fire is in here." 

When his fingers felt better, Aziraphale blew the candle out and swept the traces of paper ash off Hestia's altar. He rolled Crowley's handkerchief around the candle and carefully placed it into his bag with the candelabra. Then he put on his gloves and picked up the fire grate and carefully put it back on Hestia’s altar. "All right," Aziraphale said. "See you in summer." 

***

June 1825 Tadfield

The night before they were to meet with the Young family, Crowley and Aziraphale were in their nightshirts in a narrow tavern bed, leaning against the same pillow. Aziraphale was reading aloud from an astronomy magazine and Crowley was pointing at the page and making demands. 

“Stop,” said Crowley. “Go back to the previous page. I need to see how he sets up his theodolite to look at the spectral interruptions in solar light.”

“Spectres and theodolites: It seems almost occult to me.”

“Optic glass, angel. It’s a dark art we Englishmen cannot fathom.”

“Wouldn’t it be a ‘light art’ by definition?”

“Eurrrrgh,” said Crowley. “Right. I’m done with the figure. Go ahead to where he talks about the fixed lines of the spectrum.” 

“I think you are taking my help for granted,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve read that section three times. You come here with your magazines and expect me to spend endless hours reading them to you on demand and according to your ridiculously precise instructions.”

“What’s this?”, said Crowley. “I’m the one with the ridiculously precise needs? This from the man who brings his own silk pillow to rub against while he’s getting his leg lifted?”

“Ahem,” said Aziraphale. “Spectral interruptions, also termed fixed lines, are one of the most important discoveries in the whole range of Optical Science . . .”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Women and Unnatural Intelligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema Device explains to Crowley and Aziraphale how the world works.

June 1825 Tadfield

Crowley and Aziraphale were driving from the Youngs’ farm back to their inn in the centre of Tadfield village. It was the traditional time for Aziraphale to say something that would annoy Crowley and start up their evening’s bickering. And Aziraphale didn’t fail in his duty.

He started with the usual gushing over Adam’s cleverness. And then, most likely because he knew that Crowley would rebuke him if he didn’t, he gushed about Pepper’s cleverness. He managed to not express any surprise about the fact that she could read nearly as well as her brother despite being two years younger. He even managed to avoid mentioning that she was the child of a common farmer. Crowley was just starting to relax. And then:

“I do worry,” said Aziraphale, “That Pepper is in danger of becoming a tomrig.”

Crowley felt his lips starting to work as if he was trying to extract a tiny bit of meat from a very large and offensive lump of gristle. “A ‘tomrig’,” he said, at last. “And a man of your proclivities has the right to a strong opinion on that sort of thing?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “I’m afraid it’s my fault. After all, I’ve encouraged their parents to let Adam have his way in everything, and Adam desires that his sister play at swords and rough and tumble games with him, and now I fear she’ll never take up a thimble and needle, and--”

“Wot’s it matter?”

“Well, a girl who behaves so unnaturally might not marry,” said Aziraphale. 

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Well.” He wrinkled his nose. “Obviously marriage staves off all troubles in life.”

“What are you implying?”

Crowley thought it was perfectly obvious what he was implying. But he took the high road and said: “Let her be, Aziraphale. She’s happy, she’s healthy, she’s bold. Some of us like that in a woman.”

“But I’m responsible for--”

“Let her be responsible for whether she marries and who she marries,” said Crowley. “Perhaps she’s destined to disguise herself and join the navy or something.”

“B-but-- that’s terrible! Why would you--? That’s against the laws of man and nature. It’s not funny at all.”

“Eyah,” said Crowley. He decided the high road was over rated. “So you’re the only one who gets to break whatever laws he pleases. Because you break the rules in a gilded room in a private club while a bust of Plato looks on.”

“I don’t want to be responsible for the girl having an unnatural life. And I fail to see what Plato has to do with any of this.”

“Well, wasn’t it Plato who taught us that the planets and the sun move in perfect circles around the Earth? There’s nothing irregular or eccentric in nature according to him. And anything that Plato didn’t understand has to be unnatural.” Crowley leaned over to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear. “It’s lucky for you that he believed that men could love each other.”

Aziraphale huffed. “We aren’t talking about Plato,” he said. “We are talking about Pepper Young.”

“Plato says that women are weaker and less intelligent than men, so it must be true, right?”, replied Crowley. 

“What are you doing?” said Aziraphale. 

“Being Socratic,” said Crowley. “Big fan of the Greeks, me.”

“Well I’m trying to have a serious conversation here,” said Aziraphale. “Now. I certainly don’t want to break young Pepper’s spirit, but--.”  
  
“So many important words come from the Greeks,” said Crowley, and he sang them in an airy voice: “ ‘Astronomia’, ‘planet’ . . . “ 

“--she has to learn to act appropriately for her sex.”

“. . . hypocrite . . .”

“I’ll have you know, I don’t generally permit people to interrupt me like this.”

“ . . . sycophant . . .”

“Just because you know a few Greek words doesn’t mean you know what’s right to do in this situation.”

“. . . irony . . .”

“I am trying to think of her future,” said Aziraphale. “But as putting off present pleasures for a better future is anathema to you--”

“ . . . anathema . . .” 

“Obviously you’d rather not talk seriously,” said Aziraphale. “I give up.”

Crowley turned and looked his sometimes lover directly in the eyes. He let all the jocularity and lightness fall from his face until he could feel that his own eyes ached with the sadness of wasted years, lost loved ones, and painful realities. Then he spoke plainly and didn’t hold back his bile:

“The only future that is guaranteed to any of us, Aziraphale, is the grave. And, as for me, I’d rather live my life while it’s mine to live, and not mortgage my present happiness for a future that doesn’t exist.” Crowley put the reins into one hand and took Aziraphale’s hand with his other. “For my sake,” he said. “I’m begging you, Aziraphale. Do not steal one drop of that child’s joy.”

“But I’m not--”

“Just because you are wealthy doesn’t make it right for you to force others to suffer for your self-righteous notions.”

Aziraphale turned bright red and started to sputter. Crowley took up the reins properly and steered Bentley under the awning of the inn’s stable, and the stable boy ran out to assist him in unhitching his mare. 

***

December 1812 Hestia’s Temple on the grounds of Empyrean Hall

After their marriage ceremony, Aziraphale left the folly first. That was their usual way. As he was the young lord of the manor, there was no place on the grounds that Aziraphale wasn't allowed to be and he had a well-established tendency to read books in odd outdoor locations. Also, few who lived on the estate could refuse to converse with him or to go where he directed them. He was the perfect diversion.

Crowley watched Aziraphale head down the path that led toward the Hall. He counted to three hundred in his head and then he stepped through the door of the folly, locked it, hid the key under a stone, and walked back to the stable yard.

As he drew closer to the yard, Crowley's elation at being newly married and freshly sexed gave way to a more complex set of emotions. Tonight he would clean and polish the carriages that would carry Aziraphale away from him. If he could time his morning chores just right, he might catch a glimpse of the carriages as they trundled their way down the mile of winding road that led to the gatehouse. And, unless he happened to be allowed to be one of the drivers who executed the mid-season exchange of horses between London and the estate, that would be the last he would see of Aziraphale until June. 

The next morning, the coaches rolled out of the stables and up to the big house. The road between Empyrean Hall and the gatehouse didn't go past the stables, so Crowley contrived to have an errand out in the fields near a bend in the road, so that he could see them go by. He thought he saw a flash of snowy white hair in one of the carriages as they sped past, but he couldn't be sure. 

And then Crowley was alone. His daily life had few distractions. When he had lived in the Hall, winters had been extremely quiet. The hunting near Empyrean Hall wasn’t particularly good, and so the Hall didn’t often host hunting parties. Most years, the Hall closed down for the winter and the girls who had not yet come out moved into the cottages with the elderly aunts. It was easier to keep the small houses warm. The valets, the ladies’ maids, the butler, the steward, the first three footmen, and some of the housemaids went to London. That left the housekeeper in charge of those who remained. And there were only a few hours of work to do in a day. Some servants would visit their relatives during the winter. Crowley’s parents had both died by the time he was fifteen, so he used to pass his lonely winters in stargazing and in slowly working his way through his astronomy magazines. 

The winter that spanned 1812 to 1813 was Crowley’s second winter as a groom. For those who cared for the estate’s animals, winter brought a significant decrease in the workload. Most of the horses were turned out into the fields for the winter and spring seasons. They needed to be checked on twice daily and have water and hay brought to them, but that was easy work, and so the grooms, like the horses, mostly did as they pleased all day. They cared for the other barn animals and ran occasional errands, of course, and they killed a few chickens every other week, to feed themselves and the house servants, but, mostly, they passed their time resting, playing cards, and drinking. 

The yearly salary of a groom was small enough that he could easily drink his way through all of it by early spring if he wasn’t careful. And, this year, Crowley had a very good reason not to drink. He was a married man, and he needed to think of his future. 

Crowley started by getting an accounting of his money from Mrs. Potts, the housekeeper. He had been reasonably frugal, and, in his fifteen years of service, he’d put by twenty-six pounds. But, in the little pouch hidden in his mattress, there was another twenty-three pounds and four shillings, which Crowley had earned for the services that he used to provide behind locked doors. It was just as well that he was married now. With a ruined face, he could never expect to earn like that again.

Aziraphale’s inheritance might not come for decades, but it occurred to Crowley that he and his husband could buy a house far from the estate and move in together. Actually, Aziraphale would buy the house and Crowley would publicly be known as his groom and man-of-all-work. Not an equal arrangement, but, all in all, a far better arrangement than what they had now. And they would have privacy at night. 

Over the next weeks, as he drove bales of hay to the animals in the fields of the estate, Crowley plotted out how he could maximize his future savings. He thought through all of his yearly expenses and decided that he could do without tea and alcohol and he could skip all the village balls and make his shoes last another year, and that would allow him to put aside nearly six pounds this year. He didn’t expect that a promotion would be possible, but if it should happen that one of the coachmen left and he was given the position, his salary would be back up to what it had been when he was a footman, and that could allow another fourteen pounds per year to be saved.

The other person that he should be planning with wasn't available, but Crowley recalled that Aziraphale had an allowance of one hundred fifty pounds per year, and he guessed that Aziraphale could probably save half of that without it being noticed. So seventy-five from Aziraphale plus six from himself was eighty-one pounds a year saved. Unfortunately, to buy a house with a little land they’d need at least five hundred pounds. 

The thought of six long years of sneaking around nearly crushed Crowley, but then he remembered that Aziraphale likely had jewelry and other portable wealth. Aziraphale probably had a dozen or more pieces of value. Some of them would be sentimental, like their wedding rings, but not all. If he had ten pieces worth twenty-five pounds each that he was willing to sell, that would decrease the waiting time by two and a half years. How much Aziraphale would be willing to sell in order to move in together earlier was therefore an important and delicate question. The topic would need to be broached when Aziraphale returned from London. But Crowley wasn't intimidated. Unlike most couples, they had true love, so these sorts of money discussions would be something they could take in stride. 

Crowley didn’t spend all the time that Aziraphale was away thinking about money. He knew that the key to a happy marriage was to spend most of your time together sharing happy thoughts. And he intended to have a good marriage. He was off to a good start already: he had true love and a gorgeous wedding ring. It was a piece of Aziraphale's family history and also a promise of faithfulness. It was true that these first few months were a bit difficult, but married men were often separated from their spouses, by war or when they needed to work to earn their fortunes. And separation meant doing your best to feel joy and togetherness, despite the distance.

Crowley was assigned to make the early morning drive into the village to sell surplus milk and eggs from the estate. And since he was alone on these trips, he made the most of those two hours by letting them be his special time with Aziraphale. The work in the stables was too hot for wearing a coat, even in winter, but driving was chilly, and so he needed a coat, and that meant that he could slip out of bed, put on his coat, and secretly carry a little piece of Aziraphale with him on his pre-breakfast trip to the village. The slight weight of his wedding ring over his heart made him feel less alone, and, as he drove, he spoke out loud, as if to Aziraphale.

The fateful day when his secret was discovered happened near the end of February. Crowley had just come back from selling butter and milk and eggs in town. As he drove the lurry up the mile of winding road through the grounds and up to Empyrean Hall, Crowley talked to Aziraphale out loud. 

"What do you think about travelling together?", he asked his invisible companion. "A gentleman can take a groom or a driver with him when he travels. We could even go abroad. It could be many years before your old uncle dies. Why should we bide our time skulking around the estate when we can do the grand tour? I could make love to you in a soft bed in every country in Europe. Would you like that? Of course, you’re right. The wars. What if we went to Scotland, then? We could find a quiet place by the ocean. I’ve never seen the ocean. Have you?"

Crowley reached Empyrean Hall and went round to the servants' entrance of the great house and rang the bell. 

A maid answered and led Crowley to the office of the housekeeper. When he knocked on the door, he heard a voice on the other side:

“One minute.” Then the door opened, and Mrs. Potts, the housekeeper, answered. She whispered over her shoulder. “It’s just Anthony, dearie. No need to pack everything away.”

Potts let him in, and there, in her office, was Miss Device, the seamstress who made all the livery for the servants at Empyrean Hall. The special friendship between the housekeeper and the seamstress meant that the two of them were often together, especially in the winter months when Mrs. Potts had fewer duties. Device was standing on the side of Mrs. Potts’ desk. Some piles of fabric and a sewing basket were on the small sofa behind her, but Device was ignoring her work to stare at a small array of playing cards which were clearly not being used for a game of cribbage. She took a card from the deck in her hand and laid it out next to the others and then huffed and shook her head. 

“Well timed, Anthony,” said Mrs. Potts. “What can I do for you?”

"There's the money," said Crowley. "And the receipt. I got 4 pence per dozen eggs today. But you should know we can get 10 pence a pound for pork or mutton." 

"Well the wars are good for something," said Mrs. Potts. "I'll think about killing some sheep." She turned to Miss Device. “Didn’t you want to have Anthony try on his new uniform?”

“Yes,” replied Device. But she didn’t bother to look up from the cards. She waved her hand vaguely at a pile of pink cloth that was folded on a wooden chair. Then she laid another card on the desk.

“Miss Device needs to join the family in London for the second half of the season,” explained Mrs. Potts. “When they rotate the horses. And she wants to finish you up before she leaves, right dearie?” There was a certain fond exasperation to her tone. 

“Yes,” said Device. Her voice was clipped. She kept frowning at the cards. The queen of spades scowled back up at her. Crowley craned his head to get a closer look. He thought he’d spotted the two of hearts sitting in a sea of spades cards but Mrs. Potts was suddenly standing between him and the cards. She was holding out the brand new pink livery coat. 

“Try the coat,” said Mrs. Potts, as she put it in his arms. “Let Miss Device know when you have it on.” Then she took his money over to a corner of her desk and started counting it out. 

There was no reason for Crowley to say no. None he could think of quickly. And Mrs. Potts was more or less facing towards him, so she might notice if he tried to take off the very expensive piece of jewelry that was hanging around his neck. Casualness was the key. He turned his back to the ladies to hide the ring from them as he took off his heavy winter coat and put on the new lightweight one. He buttoned it carefully in front and turned around. 

“Done,” he said. But Device was still studying the cards. She was pale.

Mrs. Potts finished counting the money. She unlocked a desk drawer and pulled a ledger out. She paged through it and then settled onto the correct page and ran her finger down the list. She peered at the receipt and carefully copied the numbers into her book. Then she looked up at her companion and spoke. 

“What’s wrong dear?”, she said to Device.

“You should look at them,” replied Device. She picked up her pincushion and turned to face Crowley. “These long arms,” she said. "I never quite get them right." But Crowley could hear the false cheerfulness in her voice. Device adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves and put a pin in one. Meanwhile, Mrs. Potts had come round the side of the desk and was looking at the playing cards. Her hand was over her heart.

“That nine,” said Potts. “I don’t like the look of it at all. Perhaps you shouldn’t go to London with the horse exchange. You can fake an illness. No sense in using them, I say, if we’re not going to heed them.”

At that moment, Device opened the top button of Crowley’s new coat and adjusted the lapels. Her eye fell on the lump in his shirt.

"What's that?", Device said. "Something new?" 

"Just a little family heirloom thing, nothing," Crowley said. 

"Family?", said Mrs. Potts. She turned around to stare at Crowley. "What family do you have? You haven’t received any post or visitors in years.”

"Ngk," said Crowley. "It's errrrr--" And that was all he said, because Miss Device had pulled the ribbon and ring out from under his shirt and was peering at the exquisite little flower made of pearls and diamond set among finely wrought leaves of gold. 

"Where did you get this?", she said. 

"Family," he replied. He tried to take a step back, but she had him by the neck and, though she was small, she was strong, and she was standing between him and the door. He'd have to physically attack her to escape, and, as panicked as he was, he couldn't bring himself to attack a friend. Now Mrs. Potts was crowding him. He tried to step back towards the wall, but Miss Device had a firm grip on the ribbon around his neck. Potts peered through her glasses at the ring. 

"I know this ring," Potts said. "It belongs to Mr. Fell. What’s it doing in your hands?"

"I'm not a thief," he babbled. "I'm not a thief. I promise."

"My God," said Miss Device. "My God, Marjorie. It’s happened between them." She glanced toward the cards and then shared a significant look with Mrs. Potts. “They aren’t for us,” Device said. Potts' eyes widened slightly, then she closed them, pressed her lips together tightly and then exhaled powerfully. 

"Bloody Hell," Potts said. The women looked at each other, and something passed in the air between them. Then Miss Device pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly. “We have to,” replied Potts. “And you know it. You know what you saw. There’s no room for kindness.” 

And then it all happened at once. Device pulled the ribbon to the side and twisted it in her fist. It cut off Crowley's wind and nearly pulled him over. He couldn't think of how to fight her, and he could only bring his fingers up to the ribbon to try to pull it away so he could breathe. The terrifying need for air was suddenly the totality of his existence. 

Device forced him back toward the wall, and, just as his vision was starting to blacken on the edges, she loosened her grip to allowed him to gulp mouthfuls of air, though she kept the pressure tight enough that he could feel the ribbon and how easily it could cut him off from life itself. Now Potts was crowding him. She stared into his eyes and pursed her lips and then nodded with apparent satisfaction. 

“That’s enough,” said Potts. 

And Device loosened the ribbon so that Crowley could breathe freely, but she held the ring in her fist as she brought her lips to Crowley’s ear. "Listen well," said Device. "You're a common thief." 

" 'M not," said Crowley. He shook his head rapidly back and forth. "Never. Been here fifteen years. Never would steal."

"If you're not a thief," said Miss Device. "Then exactly what kind of criminal are you admitting to being?"

"Errgh," said Crowley.

"We thought as much," said Potts. She stepped away from him. "Foolish young man. Better for you that you were a thief." She opened her cash box, took out handfuls of coins and stuffed them into a bag. "The family will be told that you stole this money.”

"But--"

“Then you ran off to Dorchester. You were on a stagecoach before anyone in the stables realized you were even gone. And you were never heard from again." 

“No,” said Crowley. “Please--”

Device tightened the ribbon around his neck again for just a moment. “If you think that what you are wearing around your neck is anything other than a noose,” she said. “You’re a fool.”

There was a snipping sound and the ribbon and ring came away in her hand.

“Be more careful of your neck in the future,” said Device. She slipped the ring into the pocket of her own apron. 

Crowley nodded. He tried to swallow but he couldn't, and he didn't have a handkerchief in the pocket of the pink livery coat, so he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The two women watched him in silence as he staggered across the room and pulled the summer livery coat off. He put his winter livery coat on and felt the heaviness of a bag of coins in the pocket. He searched their faces for some sign that he could have hope. 

"A message," he said hoarsely. "Can I send a--"

Potts shook her head. And she looked genuinely sad. "This is the message," she said. "And we'll make sure he receives it.” 

***

Early March 1813, The Fell Townhouse, Mayfair, London 

Gabriel and Michael had gone out to their social club for the day. Lady Sandalphon and the young Misses were visiting friends for luncheon. And Aziraphale was hiding in the library of the family's London townhouse, reading Ptolomy's _Almagest_ , which was giving him difficulty, less because of the Greek than because of the trigonometry. Determined as he was to understand the foundations of Astronomy, he ploughed through the dense prose, taking notes as went. 

There was a knock at the library door, and Miss Anathema Device, the woman who made clothes for the servants of the household, entered. She closed the door behind her and approached the desk where he was working. Aziraphale had no earthly idea of what this woman might want from him, but he closed the book and gave her his full attention. 

She stood next to his desk and placed something shiny down on it. When he saw what it was, his heart stopped. It was Crowley's wedding ring. A million terrifying thoughts went through his head, and he found himself gulping. He gripped his own leg with his hand till it hurt, just to break through the fear so that he could say something calm and intelligent. 

"What's this, then?", he asked. 

"It was found in the possession of Anthony Crowley," said Anathema. "Your ring," she added. 

"Is he? Er-- Where is he now?", said Aziraphale.

"Gone," said Anathema. "Sent away for stealing."

"I'm sure there's been a misunderstanding," said Aziraphale. He could feel himself sweating. Device was his servant, and so he should be authoritative, but she was staring down at him with such sternness that he felt as if she was empowered over him. "Anthony is a very good man,” said Aziraphale. “A kind man. I'm sure--"

She cut right across him as if she were the mistress and he the servant. "I'm sure he's done you many a kindness," she said. And his confusion at her curious phrasing made him unable to speak. "A man like him," she said, "Is the kind of a man who might see a young lord in distress and lonely and feel called to offer him . . . comfort." And her meaning was suddenly very, terrifyingly, clear.

Aziraphale leapt to his feet. "What have you done to him?"

"Saved his life," she said. "Mrs. Potts gave him all the money in her box, and sent him to find his fortune in a safer place than Empyrean Hall."

"His life? How was his life endangered?"

"You endangered him," said Miss Device. "And make no mistake about it."

Aziraphale found that his mouth was opening and closing and no words were coming out. He categorically refused to confirm what she was saying. But he couldn’t find the words to deny it either. Device took a step towards him and looked him dead in the eye. 

"Your aunt destroyed Anthony’s face because he happened to be standing in the room when she had just received bad news. In the months that followed, I watched her express more regret over the cost of the vase she broke than she ever did for his disfigurement. If you think for a moment that she would show him mercy or that you could protect him, you’re delusional."

"Did Anthony say where he would go?", said Aziraphale.

"You aren't listening to me," said Anathema. "If you ever cared about him, you will let him go. Your taking an interest in any man who does not share your rank endangers him.”

"I've no idea what you are talking about, Miss Device." 

She pursed her lips and gave him a dark look. "Mr. Fell," she said. "You need to learn to better hide your inclinations. I'm not the only one who can see them. You were very very fortunate that it was Potts and I who discovered your indiscretion. Consider this second chance to be a divine gift. You might not get another."

Aziraphale found himself blinking rapidly. How could other people possibly know the secret longings of his heart? He’d never said a word to anyone, other than to Crowley. Could other people detect his nature? Was there some outward sign that he gave that let others know what sort of man he was? And how could he prevent them from knowing? Aziraphale realized that his eyes were darting around and that he was making all sorts of faces. He looked up at Miss Device, and she seemed grimly satisfied. 

“If you can learn to be discreet,” she said. “There are certain houses here in London where you can find sympathetic companions of your own social class. I’m sure you’ll receive an invitation to one sooner or later."

***

March 1813, London

The little urchin was nodding vigorously. He was impatient and ready to go and earn his money, but Crowley went over the instructions agan. 

“So that’s the house, number sixteen, the one with the rounded front. And the man you are looking for is--”

“I know, guvn’r, you’ve said. He’s young but his hair is completely white.”

“That’s the one,” said Crowley. “And you run into him, hard, as if by chance. Fall onto the ground. Let him help you up and brush you off. He will, he’s like that. Probably apologize and everything. Then you seize your moment and slip the note into his hand.”

“Just give me the note, man, and I’ll see it done all right.”

“And then you wait in the neighbourhood of the house for the rest of the day, in case he wants to send something back with you. If you bring something back from him it's a whole shilling.” said Crowley. “And I’ll know if it's from him, and if you try to pull one over on me, you’ll not only get nothing, but you’ll get a beating.”

“You’re going to pay all that and wait on a bench in Saint James's Park in the cold, all day, just for this?”

“Yes,” said Crowley. The boy ran off and Crowley sat down on the bench to wait. “I’d give every penny I have,” he said. “And I’d wait till the end of the world.” 

  
  



	13. Lost in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley are separated from each other, and they each get a view of queer life in London.

March 1813-- The Fell Family’s Townhouse in Mayfair

"Get out," said Aziraphale to the seamstress. 

He followed her to the door of the library and locked it behind her. Then he sat in a chair and held Crowley's wedding ring and turned it over and over in his hands.

'Where did you go, my love?', he said to himself. 'We never thought to have a place to meet in case of emergencies. Where did you go?' He cast his mind back through every single conversation. The only meeting place they'd ever had that wasn't on the grounds of the estate was their field. And they'd planned to meet there in the summer. Could Crowley be hiding in their field, freezing to death, hoping for Aziraphale to come to him?

No. Crowley knew where Aziraphale was. He knew the address of the London townhouse. Therefore he would have come to London. But he couldn't come strolling up the street in front of the house because, with his bright red hair and his distinctive scar, he would be instantly recognizable. And he was accused of thieving, so if anyone from the household saw him, they'd try to capture him. 

But Crowley would be in London, somewhere nearby. Aziraphale went to the window and looked down into the street. There were men surveying the pavement of the street below with a tripod and a long chain. There were some well dressed men in top hats and warm tail coats strolling down the pavement and there were a pair of governesses leading a half-dozen children along the road. A little boy was kicking a ball up the pavement. A man in livery came out the front door of one of the houses and threatened him with a cane, and he picked up his ball and ran off. 

'I’ve never been out by myself,' said Aziraphale. 'But I'll just have to try. He'll likely be in a public park, not far from here. Or maybe a public house."

Aziraphale went upstairs to his little bedroom, looked through his possessions and found a sturdy green cord. He threaded Crowley's ring on it, tied a double knot in the cord, and slipped it over his own neck and under his shirt. He marched downstairs and asked for his warm coat and his top hat and gloves and cane. Then he went out for a walk. 

First he went to Grosvenor Square, and Crowley wasn't there. Then he went to Berkeley Square. There wasn't a hint of a tall red-headed man. He searched the paths of Hyde Park that were near to Grosvenor-gate, criss-crossing back and forth as methodically as he could manage, scanning the crowds of well-dressed people, dodging carriages, and doing his best to avoid getting lost. As the afternoon wore on, the crowds thinned. He received four solicitations to sell him a newspaper, three offers of food, and an offer for a shoeshine. He asked all the vendors if they’d seen a tall red-haired man with a scar on his face, but none had. 

The late winter sun started to get very low. Aziraphale’s feet were unused to walking for so long over hard gravel, and the cold was starting to seep through the thin leather at the bottoms of his shoes. There were street lights along Park Lane, and he knew he could follow them home, so he found his courage and crossed out of the gate at Hyde Park Corner and headed to Green Park, where a dapper young middle class man about his own age fell into step beside him.

“Hoping to meet someone?”, said the young dandy. He tilted his head and scratched the top of it with his middle finger. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. And when the dandy met his eye and smiled, Aziraphale nearly went weak-kneed with relief at the prospect of finally having some help. He was so footsore and terrified, and this young fellow looked like he knew his way around the parks. In fact, he was confidently leading the way down the path towards a copse of trees. Aziraphale hastened after him and gave a description of his missing husband. “I’m looking for a tall thin man, twenty-three years old, red hair, with a large scar on the right side of his face.”

“I haven’t seen him around,” replied the dandy. “But perhaps I could be of help to you, sir?” And he gave a beautifully friendly smile. 

“Oh, I do hope so,” said Aziraphale. “There’s an awful lot of ground to cover, and I can’t possibly manage to search the entire park alone.” He saw something change in the other young man’s face, and he got the impression that he had missed something in the conversation. The dapper young man took a big step backwards, and Aziraphale realized that his new friend wasn’t a friend at all, so he excused himself and hurried away. When another man called to him from a shadow and made an extremely indecent suggestion, Aziraphale decided to retrace his steps and hurry back home. 

He returned to the safety of his own well-lit street a wiser man than he had departed. He wondered whether those strangers had detected his nature the way that Miss Device had implied that other people could. Or perhaps the park was a meeting place for men who were so inclined, and, if so, would Crowley be with them, or would he leave word with them? But they seemed very unsafe and uncouth. Did men normally just offer their favours to strangers in the dark? Or were they trying to lure Aziraphale in and rob him? It was all very confusing. The one person who he could trust to explain everything to him was completely missing, and Aziraphale had no idea how to find him. 

Aziraphale was lost in thought, and as he neared his door, he collided with a little boy who was running in the opposite direction. The boy fell onto his bottom and started crying. 

"My goodness," said Aziraphale, "You poor thing." And he bent over to help the child up. 

At that moment, the first footman ran to the pavement and started shouting at the crying boy. 

"Get out, you filthy rat!", said the footman. "Don't let him touch you, Mr. Fell. Little thief has been skulking around this street for hours."

"Thank you very much sir," said the boy, and he shook Aziraphale's hand. "You're a nice man. And I hope to meet you again." Then he ducked out of reach of the staff that the footman swung at him and danced off down the street. As the boy left Aziraphale realized that there was something in his hand. A small piece of paper. He went inside, handed over his overcoat and hat and gloves and walking stick to James, and then opened up the scrap of paper. It had one sentence on it. 

_**Anejle yew haf mi Hurt aL waz** _

Some of the letters were so badly formed that he had to read it three times before he was sure of what it said, but there was no question of who it was from. Aziraphale ran back outside, coatless on an evening in early March, searching the shadows between the streetlights for the little boy who had given him the message from Crowley. The boy was nowhere to be seen, so Aziraphale ran down the chilly street like a madman, hatless and in only his tailcoat. Then the boy suddenly popped out from behind a pillar and jumped into his path.

"Have you got something for me?", he said. 

"Have I?", said Aziraphale.

"Something to bring back to him? The feller with the scar on 'is fizzog. He said you'd send something back."

"Uh," said Aziraphale. "But where is he?”

Two sets of feet came pounding down the pavement and Aziraphale turned around to see the first and the second footman running towards him.

"Sir," shouted the first footman, a man named James. "Mr. Fell, sir. What are you doing?"

Aziraphale was not a fast thinker, but over the past two months he'd gotten used to providing the occasional misdirections to staff on the grounds of Empyrean Hall. 

"This boy is obviously hungry and cold," said Aziraphale. "I can't simply ignore his plight. I want him taken to the kitchen and given some dinner."

"Sir," muttered James. "Your generous heart does you credit, but if we feed him, there'll be a dozen more like him at the door tomorrow. And a hundred the next day."

"I insist," said Aziraphale. 

"You can't do this sort of thing in London, sir," said the second footman. "And Chef won’t allow him in the kitchens anyway."

"Then I'll bring him something from the kitchens myself," said Aziraphale. He was stalling for time. He didn't have a plan yet. He couldn't give a valuable gold ring to a strange boy in the street. A note perhaps? But Crowley couldn't read terribly well and he might misinterpret any note that was sent to him. It was hard to know what to do. All Aziraphale knew was that Crowley was alone in this enormous city of a million souls and the only connection he had to him was this child.

"I'll take him round to the back, sir," said the second footman. And he took the boy by the sleeve and marched him off down the block to bring him around to the mews street which ran between the stables and servants quarters at the backs of the great townhouses. 

"Back home, Mr. Fell?" said James. And Aziraphale, shivering, jogged back to the front door and into the hall. He developed a plan as he jogged. He could sit with the boy while he ate and whisper a meeting location to him. Somewhere in Hyde Park, perhaps. Then Crowley could meet him there tomorrow morning. He could promise the boy a shilling to bring Crowley to him. 

Aziraphale entered the front hall, walked through in haste, slipped round the back of the main staircase and through the door that led below stairs. Then he asked a very confused maid which way to go to get to the kitchen. With wide eyes, she led him through the narrow and unadorned corridors. As he walked along, he gathered a small entourage of chattering people who were trying to convince him that his needs would be well taken care of if he were to simply go back above stairs and wait. He ignored them. 

He was trying to remember his tour of Hyde Park today, trying to think of a landmark that was distinctive and yet out of the way, and that he could find again on his own. Unfortunately, the park was mostly criss-crossing paths and shrubs and grass and men with pushcarts. Maybe the boy could suggest a landmark? Or maybe Berkeley Square would be safe enough, as long as no one from the house followed him. There was a bench there. He could arrive first and then wait for Crowley and they could walk someplace safer before they spoke to each other. It could all be very subtle. Crowley could follow twenty paces behind. He wouldn’t even have to be told to do it. Crowley was very quick-witted. 

Aziraphale, three maids, James, and the London housekeeper reached the kitchen together. 

"I'll need some good bread and cheese and a bowl of something substantial and hot," said Aziraphale to the kitchen maid. "Bring it to me at the back door." He asked where the back door was and an obviously unhappy James led him through the underground rooms and then up a staircase and into a little hall that opened to the stables on one side. James opened the back hall’s exterior door a crack, shouting through it to announce Aziraphale’s presence. Then he opened it the whole way. 

A maid and the third footman were both standing in the mews street, a clear three feet of space between them, their cheeks flushed more than could be accounted for by the cold night air. They mumbled their courtesies to him, went inside, and left him and the first footman standing in the narrow stone-paved road that ran between all the stables belonging to the great townhouses on the surrounding streets. Next to the back door were a few crates. Aziraphale sat down on one of them to wait, and a minute later, the second footman came into view. But without the little boy.

"I'm sorry sir," he said. "The lad's run off. They do that all the time. These street children."

Aziraphale felt tears of rage and terror forming in his eyes. He had been bamboozled; his order had been deliberately disobeyed. The child had probably been sent off with clouts and kicks. And he might never return. Aziraphale stared at a pile of rubbish leaning against the building on the other side of the mews street and he bit his lip. He wanted to scream, but he knew that however furiously he might abuse the footmen, his wishes would not be obeyed today or in the future. His own orders meant nothing next to the orders of the earl or Lady Sandalphon. Worse, they would surely be informed of this entire incident of impropriety and he'd be abused by his whole family at supper. He wasn't sure if he would even be able to keep from crying into his soup because his husband was somewhere out there on the cold streets of London, alone and helpless, and there was no way to contact him.

First Footman James tilted his head and spoke in a soft voice. "Let's get you inside, sir," he said. "What would you say to a nice warm bath?"

***

“Go over it again,” said Crowley, “Tell me the exact words he said.”

The boy rolled his eyes and repeated everything. “And then he said he’d bring me something from the kitchens himself.”

“That’s my sweet foolish angel, all right,” said Crowley. “Here’s your sixpence, Rat. Good work. See you again tomorrow.”

The boy who called himself Rat shook his head. “I got beaten. That’s another tuppence for taking a beating.”

“ M’ sure you get worse from your Dad every night,” said Crowley. “And I can walk for ten minutes and find me a dozen boys who’ll work for less.”

“But I know what your ‘angel’ looks like,” said Rat. “And he knows my face. He’ll be looking for me.”

Crowley growled in annoyance, but he fished into his pocket and tossed a penny at the boy. 

Rat caught the penny and nodded. “Now do you want me to take you someplace where you might find some company? Just another thrupence.”

  
  
  


***

When Aziraphale dragged himself down for breakfast a few minutes before nine o’clock, everyone was still eating: Uncle Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and the girls. They watched him carefully as he scooped some cold eggs and a few pieces of fruit onto his plate. Before he could even take his first bite, Uncle Gabriel spoke.

“Decided to join us, at last,” Gabriel said. “We missed you at supper.” 

“Did you know,” said Uriel. “That the Pemberlys live just three doors down. I’m visiting them today. What shall I say if they ask why you were seen outside running down the street after dark without a hat or overcoat?” 

“Is it true?”, said Juliet, who was only sixteen, “That you cried all night over a street boy?”

Michael smiled at Aziraphale. He looked like a wolf. 

“That’s not true,” said Aziraphale, with what he hoped was some dignity. And he wasn’t lying. He hadn’t cried all night. He’d just gone to bed early. After a very long and very private bath in which he had stifled his sobs by ducking his head underneath the water whenever they threatened to get loud enough to be overheard. 

  
  


***

Aziraphale was being followed. For the entire week after receiving the letter from Crowley, he had been trying to find a way to go for a walk alone in the city, and nobody was letting him. Every morning, either Michael or Lady Sandalphon and some variable number of the girl cousins accompanied Aziraphale on his walks around the local parks. When he tried to protest, Lady Sandalphon talked hysterically of the murders that had happened the previous month over by the docks where a whole family had been beaten to death with a maul. She insisted that Aziraphale was prone to wandering and would get lost in the city and be murdered. And when Lady Sandalphon was out visiting one afternoon and Aziraphale tried to slip out, he found that a footman insisted upon accompanying him. He wasn’t even allowed to go to the end of the street on his own. Uncle Gabriel explained frankly: “We can’t have you stumbling into dangerous neighbourhoods to be swindled by beggars or stripped by thieves.” 

Though he was constantly surveilled, in the third week of March, Aziraphale thought he caught a glimpse of the little street urchin that had borne Crowley’s message. He couldn’t be completely sure, and the child, if it had been him, had dashed away before Aziraphale could get a good look at him. In order to push back his despair at ever seeing his husband again, Aziraphale started to wear Crowley’s wedding ring onto a gold chain around his own neck. It was an odd thing to do, to wear his dead grandmother’s ring around his neck, but the footmen who dressed and undressed him hadn’t commented on it at all. Ever since Aziraphale’s emotional breakdown over the street boy, all of the footmen had been extra solicitous and kind. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was because they liked the fact that he was sympathetic to the poor or that they thought he had a frail mind. 

In the last week of March, Aziraphale tried to make his case to the first footman. “I think,” said Aziraphale, “That I know my route around the parks by now. I think I can be counted on to not stray from the paths and to be home well before dark. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Perhaps,” replied James, “You should ask your uncle.”

After supper that night, it was made very clear that the next few days would not provide any opportunities for searching for Crowley.

“You’ve been hiding at home for too long,” said Uncle Gabriel. “You need to spend time with your peers. Tomorrow we’re going to visit the Morningstar family. Lord Morningstar is a Marquess, and he and I have been acquainted since we were boys together at Eton. I want you to meet him and his family.”

  
  


***

  
  


“And then in the afternoon he and a bunch of ladies walked in Hyde Park. They walked along the Serpentine and he threw some pebbles into it. Then they all walked home. Same as every day.”

“Good work, Rat.” Crowley flipped the sixpence through the air. “Right,” said Crowley. “They’ve got him surrounded. Can’t make direct contact. I’m going to need to change my strategy.”

That evening, Crowley lay on a narrow bed in a crowded room, still wearing his coat because most of his money was sewn into it and he dared not take it off. He had paid extra for the single bed so that he wouldn’t have to worry about his bedmate feeling the hardness of the coins if he were to lie up against him. In the far corner of the boarding house room a happy couple enthusiastically danced the kipples on a creaky bed and Crowley listened to them and reflected that he and his husband had never had any kind of marriage bed, however creaky or narrow. 

The next morning, he woke up, pissed in a common bucket in the corner of the room, stood in line for his chance to drink a ladleful of freshly boiled water, and then received a piece of hard bread and a boiled egg for his breakfast. 

He emerged from the boarding house into the relative light of the soot-filled street. He looked around, spotted an army recruiter and ducked back under cover to wait for him to walk by. When the coast was clear, Crowley squared his shoulders, stepped into the crowded street and set about figuring out how to survive in the world in which he now found himself. 

***

  
  


Morningstar’s eldest son was named Lucien. He was twenty-nine years old and engaged to be married to the daughter of a wealthy trader. He was very respectable in every way. But yet there was something very off-putting about the man that Aziraphale couldn’t put his finger on, no matter how much he studied him. 

Lucien was a tall man with an ever-present smirk. He was intimidating, but in a subtle way. It wasn’t just that he had eleven years over Aziraphale. He was also more handsome and more stylish too. His eyes were a piercing blue, his nose was long and straight, and his face had the soft fullness that spoke of a gentle easy life. His yellow-blonde hair was short in front and cascaded down the sides of his face to his shoulders in gentle waves. His sideburns were short and high and crisply defined. He wore a dark red wool tailcoat with black silk velvet cuffs and well fitted wool trousers. Azriaphale had never yet dared to wear trousers. To him, they seemed too casual and too audacious. 

But Lucien seemed to be a daring fellow. Even though he was half Uncle Gabriel’s age, he spoke confidently to him about matters foreign and domestic. Lucien seemed amused at how silently Aziraphale sat in the presence of his elders. When the old men finally retired to another room, Lucien poured Aziraphale some brandy and pulled his chair closer. 

“What do you think of London, Mr. Fell?”, said Lucien. 

Aziraphale froze for a moment. He knew that he was completely socially outmatched. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the parlour wall and he realized that he looked terrified and also that his face still had baby fat. He licked his lips. He had to speak; he was expected to acquit himself well, or his uncle would be furious. 

“What I’ve seen of it is lovely,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve been walking around the parks quite a bit. Hyde and Green and St. James’s and so on. It’s all very pretty. I like to walk along the canal at St. James’s and the Serpentine in Hyde Park.”

“And do you walk with anyone?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “I do for now, with my cousins, since I’m not yet well acquainted with the area, but I've always preferred solitude.” 

“I meant, do you walk out with any young ladies not related to yourself?”

“What?”, said Aziraphale. He blushed. His family’s propensity for cousin marriages mortified him, and now Lucien Morningstar must think that he was actually attracted to and planning to marry one of his sixteen-year-old cousins. He did his best to defend himself. “Well,” he said, “Uriel is all but promised to Michael, and Juliet and Lilias have only been out for three months. And I’ve not really met--” 

“I see,” said Lucien. And he smiled enigmatically. “Well, I enjoy the parks as well,” said Lucien, “But I believe they are best enjoyed while driving. I’ve a fast pair of Hackneys and a gig. My fiancée won’t be able to join me today, but I’d be happy to have you along late this afternoon when I take a tour around the parks.”

Aziraphale couldn’t keep the smile of hope and joy off of his face. From a gig, he could survey the parks faster. He’d have a much better chance of spotting Crowley. And, since Lucien Morningstar didn’t know Crowley at all, it would be perfectly safe to pass nearby him and maybe to hail him, under the guise of greeting a cousin or a friend from the countryside.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “I’d like to see all of the nearby parks, if that is possible.”

“Excellent,” said Morningstar. “I’ll pick you up tonight at five-thirty PM.”

***

The sun was already low in the sky when they set off, but in a fast gig, there was no question of their ability to get home before dark. They looped through all of the paths of Hyde Park several times, and Aziraphale finally started to feel like he understood the park. They entered the street at Hyde Park corner and rode along Constitution Hill. The palace loomed ahead, and Morningstar started talking about meeting the mad king when he had been in one of his manias. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and it was impossible to distinguish any of the features of the individual people in Green Park from the road. Color was disappearing from the world, and with it, any chance Aziraphale had of spotting a shock of red hair from a distance. 

“Will we have time to do all the paths of Green Park as well?”, asked Aziraphale. He tried not to sound anxious. 

“Looking for any path in particular?”, said Lucien Morningstar.

Aziraphale shrugged. “Not particularly, I just like to understand how all the paths are connected. And I do like to watch people going about their business.”

Morningstar turned the carriage down the mall and then turned into Green Park, Aziraphale craned his head to look up and down each path. After a few minutes, they followed a gently winding tree-lined path and pulled up in the dark shadows. “That the kind of business you had in mind to watch?”

Aziraphale suddenly realized that there were two men there hiding in the shadows; one of them was bracing himself against a tree with his arms and the other was-- 

“Oh good Lord,” said Aziraphale. And he felt his own face grow warm with embarrassment. He’d forgotten. “No,” he said. “Not what I meant at all. We should--” And he made a fluttery gesture with his hands that attempted to communicate that they should leave. But Lucian Morningstar didn’t seem to see the gesture, so Aziraphale hissed. “We should let these, um, gentlemen have their privacy.”

“Gentlemen?”, drawled Morningstar. He started the horses up again. “Hardly.” 

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “Better turn back, there’s another pair up ahead.” 

“Yes, well,” said Morningstar, as he turned the gig around and headed toward Saint James’s Palace. “These sorts do come out at dusk. The parks aren’t safe for decent folk at night.” As they pulled out into the dimly lit street, he seemed to be searching Aziraphale’s face for a reaction. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he was meant to react, so he decided to try to seem urbane and sophisticated.

“Um,” said Aziraphale. “I suppose, um, that’s how it is in the city?” It must have been the right thing to say, because Lucien Morningstar laughed. So Aziraphale laughed too. Life in London was rather absurd. 

Morningstar spoke: “Your family said you were very naive and had never left the countryside, and yet here you are already blasé about seeing sodomites in the park at night.”

“Doing my best to adapt,” said Aziraphale. He kept scanning the streets just in case Crowley might pop into view. 

“It must have been quite a shock,” said Morningstar, “That first night, when you got caught out in Green Park after the shadows fell.” He turned the gig onto Piccadilly. 

“Um, no, um, well yes, um,” said Aziraphale. And he saw that Lucien Morningstar seemed to be half-laughing at him. “I mean, a man did make a very lewd suggestion at me, but I simply ignored him and walked on faster.” Morningstar smirked, and Aziraphale sat up straighter in the gig and lifted his chin defiantly. “I’m not afraid of any man,” said Aziraphale. “I can defend myself. I always carry my walking stick.” As they passed Berkeley Square, he searched the circles of light cast by the oil street lamps in case he might spot a tall red-haired fellow or perhaps a familiar-looking little boy. 

“I daresay you aren’t afraid of any man,” said Morningstar. “But, still, a gentleman avoids walking alone at night. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you were looking for . . . trouble . . . would you?”

“Trouble?”, said Aziraphale. He blinked. He felt like he was missing something. He quickly reviewed the last few things that had been said in the conversation. Then his mouth dropped open like an ‘O.’ This was what Miss Device had been trying to warn him about. His family might suspect that he was walking around in the parks looking for-- “Noooo,” said Aziraphale. “No, no, no. Not. Ugh. In a _public_ park? Me?” He gulped, and remembered to add: “With a man? 

And now, as they rode up the well lit main road that led back to Aziraphale’s London house, Morningstar was smiling like a well-fed cat. Aziraphale got the sense that his sputtering was making him look like an idiot. He was pretty sure that he sounded like the exact opposite of a suave, urbane young Londoner. And he wouldn’t be surprised if Lucien Morningstar, eleven years older than him and about to marry very well, would never wish to speak with Aziraphale Fell ever again. 

But he was wrong. As he pulled his horses up in front of Aziraphale’s house, Morningstar said: “My father and your uncle have attended the same dreary old club for the past thirty years. It’s not a fit place for young men such as ourselves. Would you like me to introduce you at my club?”

“Uh,” said Aziraphale. “Y-yes. Thank you. How kind of you.”

***

April 1826 Tadfield 

“We’re an adventuring club!”, explained Adam. He was standing in the dogcart with three year old Wensleydale sitting between his legs. “And we’re attempting to find the Northwest Passage!” 

Pepper and Brian were pulling the two shafts of the dog cart and they were making loud crashing noises and stomping as they jerked the cart along. Aziraphale made a guess: “Is that the sound of the ice?” 

“Captain!”, cried Pepper. “It’s closing in on us like a vice. We can’t go any further. It will crush our hull!”

“Perhaps,” said Aziraphale, “If the ship is indeed trapped in the ice, it can be abandoned, and the captain can speak with me for a while.” 

“Carry on, men,” said Adam. “You’ll need to cut holes for ice fishing. And be alert for the Great White Sea Bears.” He hopped off the cart and down to the ground and ran to see the man who was funding his upbringing. At nine and half years old, he stood only a head shorter than Aziraphale. 

“I received your last letter,” said Aziraphale, “It was very thrilling to read. Although, I must inform you that you misspelled ‘grotesque’ and also ‘furious.’ “

“In Tibet,” said Adam, “They have different spellings than in England. And I was writing you from Tibet, so I used their spellings.”

While the rest of his family was a bit deferential, Adam met Aziraphale’s eyes without any fear. Just as Crowley had used to. To have a miniature of Crowley looking up at him with a smooth unmarked face full of such confidence and innocence seemed so strange. Like stepping into a fantasy world or looking back into the past. 

It wasn’t exactly like looking into the past, of course. Crowley had never really had a look of innocence. Even when they'd first met, there had been something a little haunted about him. But with Adam, it was like a chance to start over, to erase the past. To see Crowley as he would have been if his life had been easier. 

"I've written another story,” said Adam. “It’s on the slates because I ran out of paper. I had to borrow my sister's slate because it takes up two slates front and back." The boy didn't even pause for breath. "I know you like stories, and I wrote it ‘specially for you. It's an adventure story, with highwaymen and a daring prison escape and a man who rescues his true love from a den of thieves who've kidnapped her and locked her away."

The enthusiasm was the same as Crowley’s, infectious.

"Oh my!", said Aziraphale. "It sounds thrilling."

"Oh yes," said Adam. "There are betrayals and a terrifying fire and clever disguises and someone who comes back from the dead."

"All that on only two slates?"

"I used very small letters," answered Adam. "And I'm the only one who can read them.”

Aziraphale listened to Adam’s story, and then he read aloud from Gulliver’s Travels for a few hours. Adam and Brian and Wensleydale sat at Aziraphale’s feet, occasionally springing up to enact a part of the story before their mother ordered them to settle down. Adam’s older sister Sarah, now a maid of sixteen years, did her sewing and sat in a chair nearby. Pepper sat at the table and used a sheet of the newly delivered paper to draw pictures of the fantastical realms that Aziraphale was reading about. 

Aziraphale sat in the midst of this painfully beautiful scene of domestic bliss and hoarded it all in his heart. How he wanted it to be real for him. He wanted this exact family. He wanted to wave a magic wand and have Adam be his son and all these children be his. As for Crowley, who was somewhere in London, he wanted Crowley to be here, seated by his side. He wanted the children to belong to both of them. 

But such a preposterous family couldn't exist, and so Aziraphale struggled to accept reality and to find the courage to embrace the role that fate had thrust upon him. His Uncle Gabriel was growing weaker, and his own power over the estate had grown. He knew that he ought to marry, and then, with his wife, he could create a family of children who might all sit at his feet in the library while he read aloud. He knew that it was long past time that he did so. But he was so afraid. What if he had a son? Not a son like Adam, because his own son would not be so tall or so clever or so bold. But a son that looked like himself, a son with a more quiet nature, who liked to sit with him in the library and read or to walk with him in the gardens and lift up the leaves and look for snails and ants. What if he came to love this son? And what if, one day, something took his son away: a fever or the terrible family curse?

No. 

Better not to take the chance. He had Adam. Adam was a strong and healthy child, and all of the normal illnesses and accidents of childhood seemed unable to touch him. Aziraphale had a letter every week from him and a visit every few months, and he treasured his pseudo-fatherhood all the more because it could only be enjoyed for fleeting moments. Wasn’t that what made childhood so precious? It was fleeting.

In fact, Adam’s childhood had nearly flown past. Adam would be ten years old in August. Decisions needed to be made about his future. They probably should have been made years ago. Aziraphale had been a bit indulgent to let him stay here on the farm for so long. If he had been a more responsible parent, the boy would have been apprenticed or brought into service last year. But he had been too selfish. After all, it had been such a nice childhood. So beautiful to watch, even from afar. 

And so, as he handed over a bag of money and some little treats for the family, the knowledge that these beautiful days were numbered made Aziraphale’s departure just a little more bittersweet than usual. He treasured the painful knowledge of how ephemeral happiness was, and he didn’t force himself to mentally prepare for a future where he might see less of Adam. He knew that he would be able to find a way to endure it. Love could be felt very deeply, even from a distance. After all, Aziraphale was an expert in loving in this way. 

***

Late March, 1813, London's East End

  
  


At first Crowley had thought of London as just a horrible place that needed to be endured. He’d been terrified of getting lost or being robbed in the maze of streets, and, of course, in those first weeks, he’d been too focussed on trying to make contact with Aziraphale, and then on trying to find work, to really look around him. But, by his third week in London, Crowley started to settle in, and he started to notice his surroundings and he began to understand the strange paradoxes at the heart of city life. And, then, as was usual for him, he started to see possibilities. 

Every morning, Crowley woke up in his boarding house. He had a new boarding house, where he shared a room with only two other men, and they all had their own little beds. On Tuesday mornings, they put all their sheets and laundry into a big pile on one of the beds and the mistress of the boarding house saw that it was all done by evening. They had a pot for the bedroom and a shared privy at the end of the hall. There was a cistern of water available in a common area on every floor, but it was for filling your ewer for bathing. Nobody drank it. 

Food and small beer needed to be purchased in the streets or in the massive halls and taverns that lined the roads between the boarding house and the docks, which were Crowley’s new place of employment. Everyone drank small beer because the water from the pumps this close to the Thames was not good, and tea was too expensive. Also, being slightly lush at all times made the life bearable. 

Crowley’s world, at the moment, was centered around the Thames. The Thames itself was an open sewer. All manner of effluvia that humans or animals could produce flowed into it from pipes and from washing in off the roads. Drowned animals, mostly rats and dogs, washed up at low tide on the regular. Mudlarks picked through the gravel and mud in search of valuables, while other people gathered mussels and cockles to eat or sell. 

The West India Docks were a pair of newly constructed rectangular ponds consisting of fifty acres of water that was insulated from the tides by a series of ingenious locks and basins. There was an import dock and an export dock. Crowley worked on the import side, in a massive dock that had room for up to three hundred ships. Angry men in powdered wigs and fancy tail coats stood by the docks and cursed while they directed the flow of goods from ships to warehouses and kept time with their pocket watches. London was a city of commerce, and she demanded speed, so men and horses were driven like machines to meet her demands. The cargo was valuable and, whether it was fine china or casks of liquor or sacks of flour, nothing must be spilled or dropped or broken or brought to the wrong bay in the warehouse. And, above all, no one must slow down while there was light in the sky to see by. 

Crowley was a driver, and his job was to extract every possible bit of speed out of his horse while keeping his cart loaded as high as he safely could without spilling any cargo. The lives of horses and men were not valued nearly as much as the goods they moved, but Crowley did his best for the poor mare that was placed into his charge. While the other drivers rode back and forth from the dock to the warehouse, he led his mare to spare her his weight. In the half-minute it took the swarm of men to unload her cart, he gave her water or little handfuls of grain or hay if he had them. He tried to convince his boss that he moved more cargo per day by taking frequent trips with less weight. Still, he was often obliged to overload her, and, by the end of her work day, he was whipping her to encourage her to push her body past what it should endure. Then, at midday, he would exchange the mare for a gelding, and he would be obliged to work that horse into an early death as well. 

Along the docks and along the roads nearby were benches and street corners where poor Londoners gathered to sell their wares. Some of them pushed wheelbarrows loaded high with mussels or eels gotten from the Thames. Others simply sold themselves. When the dock workers passed by, the prostitutes trilled or, if you made eye contact with them, they sucked on their fingers or rolled their hips to let you know what service was on offer. They were dressed in all sorts of different ways. Some wore dresses without aprons and with the hems tucked up into their belts to show their legs. Others wore men’s frilled shirts with skirts or even pantaloons or knee breeches. Some even had shortish hair, piled on their heads almost like men. All of them wore heavy makeup, so it was hard to tell how old or young they were. 

It was at the end of his fifth day at the docks, when the exhaustion and novelty of adapting to his new circumstance was starting to wear off, that Crowley was walking home in the twilight and he looked up at a group of prostitutes who were importuning him and his fellow dockwokers and he missed a step and staggered. 

“Are those young men?”, he said. 

The dockworkers he was with laughed at Crowley as he stopped to look at the prostitutes more closely. Some of the prostitutes preened and called to him. One of them got up off the crate she or he was sitting on and walked over with swaying hips and said “See anything you like?” This person was standing two feet away from him and Crowley wasn’t sure of their sex. The young man or woman had plucked eyebrows and rouged cheeks and was wearing earrings, and their voice was pitched like a woman’s. They were wearing a man’s shirt, but with frills like a lord, and their skirt was hiked up to show off one knee. The hairless jawline wasn’t quite definitively feminine or masculine. 

Crowley backed away quickly and all of his fellow dock workers laughed at his slack-jawed confusion. 

“Are they men or women?”, said Crowley. 

The dockers shrugged. 

“That group is all fairies,” one of them said. 

“They suck pricks,” said another. “Good price too. ‘Cause they like it so much.” Which didn’t clear things up at all. 

The very next day, when Crowley got paid, he decided to treat himself by taking his supper in an enormous hall where he could sit down to eat. And the mystery of the she-he people only grew. There were entertainers who circulated among the tables in the hall, begging men to buy them drinks and rewarding them with bawdy songs. They sometimes played cards or marbles with the men or sat on their laps and gave them flattering attention. The entertainers all had women’s names, and some of them dressed in a mishmash of men’s and women’s clothing. But they weren’t all women. Some of them were women, some Crowley couldn’t tell about, but there were others that he was nearly certain were men. 

And then, one table over from where he was sitting, a dress-wearing performer, who Crowley was sure was a man, finished singing a song about a woman who could fuck nine times a night and made a dramatic conclusion of it by kissing a dock worker right there in the open. The docker grabbed the performer by the arse and rolled his hips into him. They caught each other’s eyes, came to a quick non-verbal agreement, and left the table to wind their way through the crowd. They stopped at a low fence that ran across the back wall of the room. The docker leaned over the fence and handed a coin to an old woman who was sitting on the other side. The old woman then opened a wooden gate to let them through the fence. They walked through and then went up a set of stairs and disappeared from view. 

“Isn’t that against the law?”, said Crowley. 

“Wot?” said one of his table-mates. “Having a bit of skirt?”

“But that’s a man he’s with,” said Crowley. Then he lowered his voice. “It’s sodomy.”

“No it’s not,” said another bloke. He spread his hands in a helpfully explanatory way. “It’s sodomy if it’s between two men. That girl is a fairy.”

“Yeah,” said the first man. “They don’t have pricks of their own, that’s why they like ours.”

“No,” said a third man, and he sounded very authoritative. “They do have pricks, but they’re just too small to use.”

What followed was a confusing and drunken debate about fairies in which the only things that were agreed upon by the men at the table were that fairies were very good suck-pricks, and that you could sometimes get a bit of back door work but that was a lot more expensive. Crowley just sat there in silence, eating his dubious eel stew, trying to understand how it was that he had snuck around the estate for years, in constant fear that he’d be hanged for his proclivities, and here, right in front of him, were hundreds of dockers publicly flirting with other men just as if they were women. 

That night, he lay in his bed and held onto the lock of pure-white hair that was all he had of his true love, and he whispered to it as if he was talking to Aziraphale. “You know what this means,” he said. “It means there’s a way for us. There’s a way for men like us to live in London. Not like them. Not with prostitutes and boys in dresses and all that. There has to be some other way. And I’m going to find it. And then I’m going to fetch you, and we’ll be able to live together, like a real married couple.”


	14. Molly Houses High and Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley find their way into the secret spaces for men like themselves.

1813

Crowley walked along a dark middle class street not far from Drury Lane on a damp night in early April. He came to a three storey house where the upper levels overhung the lower. The curtains were drawn on all three floors, and not a hint of light escaped from any room. The tiny wooden sign hanging above the door had two roosters on it. 

'Bit on the nose isn't it?', he said to himself. Then he squared his shoulders and knocked. 

A very tall and muscular man about Crowley's age answered the door. His shoulders filled the entire door frame. "We're closed today," he said. 

"But," said Crowley. "I heard there was um-- a supper club?"

"You heard wrong," said the man. 

"But I can hear people inside."

"Private gathering," said the man. "Good night." And he closed the heavy door. 

***

“I think he likes cream sauces,” said Lucien Morningstar. “Look how he laps it up.” 

Aziraphale was sitting in the dining room of Morningstar’s private club. He was sitting at a small round table with Morningstar and two slightly older men who had been introduced to him as Addy and Worsey. All the diners in the room were sophisticated and stylish men who, nevertheless, didn’t seem to mind that Aziraphale’s table-mates were taking it in turns to offer him delicious sauce-drenched morsels off their own plates. 

“That uncle of his has the whole family eating lenten foods,” said Morningstar. “Old Gabriel Fell has a French chef, but you wouldn’t know it at all from the plain fare. And they’ve barely let this sweet little angel out of the house.”

“All right, little one,” said Worsey, to Aziraphale. “Try this.” He held a fork up to Aziraphale’s mouth and then another amazing taste sensation exploded in Aziraphale’s mouth. It was buttery and delicate and savoury.

“Mmm, hhhmmm, hah,” said Aziraphale. “Good.”

He was so overwhelmed by their kindness, and, also, by the incredible richness and delicacy of the food, that he kept making ridiculous little moans and giggles of happiness. And, instead of making fun of him, like his own family would, these older men were laughing at his reactions, and, in fact, at everything he said. It seemed to Aziraphale that, suddenly, he had become charming, and he had no idea why.

“Adorable,” said Addy. “And so tasty.”

“He likes to suck down snails,” said Worsey. And his eyes were gleaming with some sort of mischievous happiness. “Makes me wonder how he’d handle sausage.”

“He’s hungry for it,” said Morningstar. “Poor thing was wandering around Green Park at night like a lost puppy.” 

Aziraphale was confused. They’d been talking about food, and suddenly the conversation had taken a strange turn. Were they making fun of him for getting lost? He looked from one face to another, trying to understand.

“Poor sweet baby,” said Worsey. “We’ll show you the right way to go about satisfying your appetites.”

***

Spring marched onward, and Aziraphale felt his mind splitting into pieces. Sometimes he stood sentry at the windows of the house, clutching a hand to his chest and rubbing the flower-shaped ring that he wore around his neck. He tried to read, but often he couldn’t understand the words. At mealtimes, at least at home, he ate mechanically and didn’t speak. The Lady Sandalphon found that her barbed comments no longer seemed to affect him, and so, after a few weeks, she turned her corrective attentions upon the young ladies in the family.

In the mornings Aziraphale walked in the parks near his home. He was never alone. Always, he was chaperoned by relatives. He walked ten yards ahead of them, scanning the horizon for any sign of Crowley or the little messenger boy while his cousins whispered among themselves about his strange mental illness. 

In the evenings, he attended parties, more or less successfully. When he was stimulated by the presence of strangers, his native tendency towards kindness asserted itself. His melancholy didn’t disappear exactly, but it receded. Aziraphale learned that he was very entertaining to middle aged women. His popularity with them was certainly not hindered by the fact that he was the heir to a large fortune. But it was also true that most middle aged women were sorely lacking in romance, and Aziraphale was the rare sort of young man who paid more attention to the chaperones than to the pretty young women they were chaperoning. Aziraphale found that attentive listening combined with what knowledge he’d gained from his idiosyncratic education at the hands of older sisters and occasional tutors was more than enough to entertain the older ladies for hours. They were fascinated by his sudden rise to the aristocracy and found his earnest country manners to be refreshingly quaint. 

Being social with people who actually liked him was a real balm for Aziraphale. He accepted enough invitations to fill his summer and autumn with trips around the countryside that would minimize his time at Empyrean Hall. But once he got home from his evenings out, he would begin to feel that the very idea of planning a future without Crowley was traitorous. He tried to appease his conscience by only accepting invitations to do things that Crowley would like to hear about, such as visiting a country house with a telescope, or one that was by the ocean. He kept a journal of his days, and started each entry with "My Dearest," as if he was writing a letter to Crowley. He wondered if he would ever get to read it to him. 

There were some things that couldn't be written in the journal. 

Morningstar's private club had turned out to be more than a meeting place for epicureans. It was a club for men who were lovers of other men, and members were sworn to the highest level of secrecy. Once he had passed their tests and sworn his oath and paid his annual fee of one hundred and twenty pounds, Aziraphale had been ushered past a locked door and into a wonderland the likes of which he’d never imagined. They had a library of erotic literature, a luxurious bathing room with attendants dressed in tunics in the style of ancient Greece, and private bedrooms which could be rented by the day or by the season. There was also a large room where everyone could meet for lectures on poetry and history that were given by men who were well known in the outside world but who were secretly lovers of men. The speakers always used pseudonyms, but the true identities of these famous poets, artists, and thinkers was an open secret among the club members.

Aziraphale didn't dare put his experiences into words, even in a private diary. If he had, he might have written that it was marvelous to feel so safe and to be able to ask questions at last. Not just about the act of love, but about the law, and how one could navigate an unconventional life. It was exhilarating to find out that not only Plato, but also King James the First, Shakespeare himself, and some of his very favourite romantic poets were actually like him. Azriraphale felt safe and whole in a way he never had before, but he also felt guilty for feeling so happy when Crowley was lost somewhere in the city. 

He asked the other club members if there were clubs in London where middle class men might meet, and they told him dark tales of houses of prostitution that were full of syphilitic men and of streets where boys sold themselves or where strangers groped in the dark. They scorned such low places. They were men of learning. They appreciated the arts and science and industry. Their love was sublime and misunderstood, and they were so far above the guttersnipes and fancy men of the streets that they felt themselves to be different creatures altogether. 

There was a special room on the highest (and therefore most protected) floor of the club where frank conversations were had about carnal acts, and where those who were so inclined could make a public display. Aziraphale decided that, as long as he didn’t touch, his marriage vows didn’t forbid him to watch and learn. He discovered that there were a great many more things to learn about the arts of love than what he had learned fumbling in dark sheds with Crowley.   
  
In the first few weeks he attended, many men invited Aziraphale to share a deed of pleasure with them. He told them that he had a husband and intended to be faithful to him. They were suspicious when he wouldn’t reveal his husband’s identity, and accused him of lying, until he finally owned that his mate was a lowly groom, whereupon they mocked him for his low taste and warned him of disease.

So now Aziraphale was lonely even among his own kind. In order to maintain himself as a club member in good standing, he took over organizing the special events like academic lectures and debates among the members. He took dancing lessons too, and, though he wasn’t very good, his sense of fun won him a few friends. 

***

Crowley walked up a dark street with a rooster tucked under his arm. He was holding the bird very carefully, pinning its wings down and avoiding its sharp spurs. His caution was probably not needed. He knew enough about chickens to know that he had a particularly sickly specimen under his arm. Its comb was colourless, its eyes were half-closed, and its feathers were an ungroomed mess. Nevertheless, it was a cock. He walked up to the tavern with the sign of the two cocks. The curtains were drawn on all windows, as usual. He knocked on the door. The tall man with the broad shoulders answered. 

"You again?", said the man.

"I heard there's cockfighting in the back," said Crowley. 

"Sometimes," said the man. He regarded the bird with narrowed eyes. He shut the door. 

Crowley stood in the street for several minutes with the sickly bird under his arms. Then the door opened again, and a woman was there. She was nearly as tall as the man. "Come in," she said. "Keep hold of that chicken. Don't let it loose indoors."

She led him through a door to a perfectly ordinary pub. Upon seeing the light and activity in the room, the rooster let out a squeak that sounded like a rusty hinge. The customers shouted abuse at Crowley as he passed through the crowded room toward another door. That door led to a kitchen where two women were working: one was filling two dozen mugs from a tankard and the other was ladling a thick stew out of a cauldron and into rows of empty bowls that were arrayed on rectangular trays on the table. 

"Wait here,” said Crowley’s guide. Then she grabbed a handful of spoons from a table, tucked them into her apron, stuck her arm through the handle of a large basket of bread, and picked up a tray with a dozen bowls of stew. She carried it all across the kitchen and up a dark and narrow staircase. Another woman carried a second tray of stew away and Crowley stood in the corner of the kitchen, with his bird, watching the last woman fill the mugs from the keg and feeling ridiculous. 

The serving women returned to the kitchen, followed by a strangely dignified man who crossed the room to silently stare at Crowley. The man was of middling height and wearing a dark green tailcoat with shiny brass buttons, a brown tweed waistcoat, and light brown breeches. All of it was simple but impeccably tailored. The man was bald on top and his neatly trimmed sideburns were grey. He had a hook nose and dark intelligent eyes. When he tilted his head to regard Crowley, Crowley felt rather like a mouse sitting in front of a hawk.

"Why are you here?", the man asked.

"Yeah," said Crowley. "I heard there was a . . . supper club?"

"And you brought a rooster?"

"Reports varied," said Crowley. "Someone said I should come ‘cock in hand’, and so . . .”

"There might be a supper club," said the bald man. "What makes you think you'll like what's on the menu?"

Crowley blushed. "Ergghyh, I have broad tastes?"

"You came alone."

Crowley nodded. 

"Who invited you?"

"Errrrr," said Crowley. "Overheard some talk."

"No one, then."

Crowley shook his head. 

"Hmph," said the man. "If you wanted the supper club, you should have known to enter by the back door.”

Crowley spun around. "Back door, yeah, back door. Oooh! Witty. That. Yes. I'll be sure to uh. Next time."

"That chicken can serve as your admittance," said the man. "It's only good for the pot anyway. Regular price is a shilling and sixpence." 

The price was outrageous for supper. It was nearly thrice what he'd usually pay, and the food that the kitchen was preparing looked quite ordinary. But Crowley had an idea that the meal wasn't the point of the evening. As the bald man lit a candle, Crowley handed his chicken over to one of the women, who gave him an aggrieved look, and then he followed the bald man across the kitchen and up the narrow staircase. 

They emerged into a narrow hallway that was lit only by the man’s candle. He turned around, held the light between them and looked Crowley in the eyes. 

"I'm Duke Bottomly," he said, without a trace of irony. "You may call me ‘Your Grace’. The Queen Mother will tell you where to sit. Curtsy to her when you enter. Then approach her seat and curtsy again. Speak only when spoken to. No real names."

Crowley nodded. 

They entered a long room with plaster walls and exposed beams on the ceiling. There was a long wooden table that went the full length of the room. There was no table cloth, but a pretty embroidered runner ran the length of it, and candelabras were set at intervals on the runner. On long benches on both sides of the table were people that Crowley knew were men, but three quarters of them were wearing frocks, wigs, and heavy makeup. At the head of the table was an enormously tall person with a huge grey wig adorned with feathers and what looked like pearls. She had heavy make up and she was wearing enormous earrings and a matching choker that looked to be made of strings of diamonds. Her old fashioned green gown had a high bodice, a lace covered stomacher and three quarter length sleeves with layers of lace trim that trailed downward. 

Crowley took three steps into the room and froze in terror, whereupon one of the ladies leaned out from her bench and smacked his backside.

“Good arse,” she said. Her voice was high and nearly perfectly feminine. 

The entire room burst into laughter. 

And, as Crowley walked toward the head of the table, several other hands reached out to confirm what the first person had said. By the time Crowley reached the head of the table, he was certain that every cheek on his body was bright red. The Queen Mother surveyed him regally, and he started to bow, and then, at the last moment, remembered that he was meant to curtsy, and so ended up doing a strange bob that was a little of both. The room roared with laughter again. 

"Welcome, New Girl,” said the Queen Mother. “Now that you've been presented, you may take a seat. At the foot, near the duke."

Crowley curtsied again and walked the same painful gauntlet back down to the foot of the table, where two of the diners made room for him to sit on their bench, which he did, gingerly. 

"You think it's sore now?", said the lady next to him. "The evening hasn't even begun." 

Crowley knew better than to show fear. He just nodded and accepted a mug of ale and some stew and bread from the kitchen maid, and did his best to focus his attention on his food.

"Who is this girl with the scars on her face?", asked a willowy young person whose yellow dress was low-cut enough to reveal a lightly muscled and completely hairless masculine chest. 

Crowley wasn’t sure what to say.

"Does the new girl have a name?", said someone who was wearing a pink muslin dress with a green wrap.

"Not yet," said another. 

"Could get used to the face," said yet another. “The rest looks good.”

"I'd marry her."

"That's enough, ladies," said Duke Bottomly. "The new girl doesn't even know your names and already you're proposing marriage.” Then he introduced the table. Everyone there was gentry of a sort. The names included Lady Windward, Miss Alice, Captain Standish, Miss Fanny, Lady Lovelorn, Baroness Jezebel, and Lord Nifty. 

Crowley watched carefully and soon discerned the rules: No real names, of course. Everyone called each other by the ridiculous titles, half of which were dirty jokes. Rank seemed to relate to the diner’s age and seniority within the supper club. There seemed to be a rule about speaking about anything real. Those dressed in female costume spent the dinner pretending to complain about the difficulties of renovating their country estates or of fending off the attentions of their rapacious husbands. Those in male costume spoke of their vast stables and their imaginary travels. When they weren’t bragging about their improbable riches, the Earls and Countesses and Baronesses all bragged about the equally improbable sizes of their cocks. They filled the air with ribald jokes, rude stories, and a constant battle of insults and wit. 

Certain topics were absolutely forbidden. One befrocked diner spoke briefly and earnestly of an ill sister before the Queen Mother cut across her with a loud and filthy story. 

As the meal went on, the diners got more drunk and started sitting in each other's laps and groping each other. Whether a person was wearing women’s or men’s garb didn’t seem to matter in how they paired up or who sat in whose lap. There did, however, seem to be limits as to how far people were allowed to undress each other at supper: The queen reprimanded one handsy couple and sent them from the table. 

"To the chapel with you both," she said. "Pray that you learn better table manners." They disappeared through a door, shrieking and giggling. 

And then, suddenly, the willowy young person with the low cut yellow frock climbed into Crowley’s lap and wriggled their arse against him. Crowley froze. 

"New Girl's gone all stiff," said the person in the yellow frock. "And not in the good way."

“Be kind to her, Miss Alice,” said the duke. 

A hand was laid on Crowley's forearm, and another person leaned close. It was Lady Windward, resplendent in a lacy white dress, a tight fitting robin's-egg-blue jacket and a matching blue bonnet. "What does the new girl do when she's not at court?", asked Windward.

"Driver of horses," replied Crowley. To see Windward’s face, he had to lean around a lapful of Miss Alice of the yellow frock and the wriggly bottom. "And a groom."

"He likes horse riding!", said Miss Alice. She clapped her hands with glee and wriggled again. "We love horses here! Hey Captain Standish, have you managed to mount that new horse in your stable? Or is he still skittish?" 

"He's coming along nicely," replied Captain Standish. 

"How many hands 's he?", cried Lady Windward. 

"Eighteen hands," replied Captain Standish. "Dark and handsome." And underneath his theatrical eye waggle, there was a little glint of possessive joy. 

There was a low whistle of appreciation from the company. 

"Well formed in every way," said Lady Windward. "No doubt." Captain Standish raised his cup in answer, and drained half of it. 

"Aw, he's nowhere near mounting that horse yet," said Lord Nifty. "I can see it in his eyes."

"I'll have you know," replied Captain Standish, "That I'm an expert breaker of horses. It's only a matter of time before I’m riding him below the crupper."

"Once you've broken him," said Lady Windward, "I should like you to bring him by so we can all see how his paces are." 

"Oh, I will," he replied. 

"Do be careful, Captain Standish," drawled the Queen Mother. "Your stallion might throw you off and you'll end up underneath him. We all know it has happened to you before."

The lords and ladies burst forth with loud hoots. They slapped the table with work-calloused hands and slammed mugs of ale onto the much-dented boards to express their amusement. 

"How about you, New Girl?", said Miss Alice of the wriggly bottom. "What kind of mount do you favor?"

"I have a fine handsome grey pony," said Crowley, very quietly. "Used to take him around my estate. He's very gentle and sweet . . ." And he trailed off. Miss Alice stopped wriggling in his lap and laid her head gently on top of his. It was more comforting than he expected.

"It's alright, New Girl," said Duke Bottomly. "You'll find yourself another mount here in the Queen's stables."

Crowley shook his head and looked down at the table. 

After dinner, the Queen Mother and all of the ladies passed through to the parlour, and the few people who were pretending to be gentlemen stayed at the table to share another ale while the serving women cleared up. 

The men all gathered around at the duke's end of the table, and they spoke seriously, but it was all in code, so Crowley didn't understand much of it. In the parlour, there was loud singing, but Crowley couldn't make out the words through the wall, so he simply sat, silent and confused. Eventually the men's conversation came to an end and most everybody stood up to go into the parlour. Crowley stood up too, but Duke Bottomly took his hand.

"No, lass," he said. "Not yet."

Crowley sat down.

"There's rules here in the Queen Mother's Court," said the duke. "We have an expectation that after you are presented at court, you're eligible for marriage." He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. "Are you?", he said. "Eligible?"

Crowley was slightly inebriated, so it took him a moment to understand what was being asked. "Ngk," he said. "Already married, your grace. Happily. Cleaving together and death do you part and all that."

"I see," said Duke Bottomly. "Then why did you come here tonight?” 

"Didn't want to be alone. Don't know anyone in London but him."

The duke nodded. "Bring her with you next time you come," he said.

"Can't," said Crowley. 

"Why not?"

"Can't reach him," said Crowley. He felt his eyes well with tears. "His family, they've got him locked up and I can't, I can't--" And he slammed his fist into the table. 

The duke shook his head. "I wish I could let you stay," he said. "You do understand why we have the rule? It's for everyone's protection."

Crowley bit his lip and nodded. It made sense, once he thought about it. "Sorry. Should have thought--" 

"I'll show you out," said the duke. He started to gather the mugs off the table, and Crowley helped him. 

They walked down the back stairs together and carried the mugs into the kitchen, where they set them next to the wash basin. The woman who was washing up said: "Your Grace, we're out of water."

The duke nodded and walked over to the door where there were four empty pails.

"I can--", said Crowley. He gestured at the pails. "Nothing better to do." The duke nodded and they both picked up pails, and walked out into the common yard in back of the inn.

"What do you do for work?", asked the duke.

"Eyah, complicated. Uh. This and that. Uh. Horses. Groom. Some driving. Working at the docks temporarily, driving horses. Other things too, before that. Served for a few years. Footman. 'S complicated."

“How’d it happen?”, said Duke Bottomly. He nodded towards Crowley’s face. “Fight?”

“No,” said Crowley. “Accident.” 

"Humph,” said the duke. “Shame.” 

They reached the center of the yard where the shared pump was, and they filled their buckets. 

“When did you marry?”, asked the duke.

"December," said Crowley. "We knew we were going to be separated, for the, um, the season, and we wanted to-- yeah."

"Ah," said the duke. "And you were in service at her home?"

“Eyah," said Crowley. They headed back to the tavern with their full buckets. 

“And why did you follow her to London?”

“Sacked,” said Crowley. “Housekeeper found out about us. Now they’ve imprisoned him--her. I’ve only gotten one message to, uh, her. But I’m still trying. I’m not giving up."

When they got inside and Crowley had set down his buckets, he reached into a pocket in the lining of his coat and pulled out an envelope. He brought it over to Bottomly and opened it to reveal a lock of snowy white curls tied with a light blue ribbon. 

"The color of her hair is rare,” said Bottomly. 

Crowley nodded. “Everything about her is rare,” he said. “She’s my treasure.” 

The duke nodded. He sighed heavily, then he carried his buckets the rest of the way into the kitchen and set them in front of the hearth. “Why don't you stay in the kitchens for a few hours,” he said. “Keep warm on a chilly night. You can help out a bit. That would let at least some of us get to bed at a reasonable hour. Don’t leave until I return."

Crowley rolled up his sleeves and found an apron. He washed dishes and pots for over an hour as he listened to thumping and bumping from the parlour over his head. He went out to fetch water again, then he sat on a stool in a corner watching the three women chop vegetables. Two of them, he noticed, were the spitting image of the Queen Mother. 

After another hour or so, men began to come down the back stairs in ones and twos, dressed in tradesmen’s and shopkeeper’s clothes and without a trace of makeup on their faces. They slipped out the back door and into the darkness. Crowley leaned against the wall in the corner. Between the hearth and the stove, the warmth of the room was intense, and it made him drowsy. The next thing he knew, the Queen Mother herself was towering over him, with Duke Bottomly by her side. Crowley rose to his feet and gave an unsteady curtsy. 

The Queen Mother looked him over shrewdly. "His Grace tells me you were in service at a country estate."

"Yes, Ma’am."

"Did you work in the house?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Serve at table?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

“Still have your livery?”

“No, Ma’am.”

"The duke will find something in your size. You’ll come early on Wednesdays and Fridays and eat your supper in the kitchen. Then you'll serve at table and help in the kitchen afterwards. You will be confined to the kitchen and the dining room. Your name will be Constance."

“Yes, Majesty.”

And so Crowley was back in service, after a fashion. Twice a week, in the evenings, he put on a powdered wig and livery and served ale and simple fare to tailors and clerks who were wearing dresses and rouge. He answered to the name “Constance” and treated them in every way like the lords and ladies whom he used to serve. In turn, they grabbed at his body and made lewd suggestions. He soon learned to pepper his polite diffidence with well timed verbal barbs, and the merriment of the evening was increased. It was the most honest work he had ever done, and the strange camaraderie of it kept him from losing his mind as he lived in London without Aziraphale.

  
  


***

  
  


May 1813, The Fell Townhouse in Mayfair

Aziraphale was sitting in the library, whiling away the morning by reading a brand new novel that had been written by an anonymous lady. It was the first book in months that he’d been able to make sense of and he was enjoying it immensely. It was a wickedly witty romance novel and he absolutely shared the protagonist's feelings about small talk at country balls. 

He heard a knock at the door, and he hastily stuffed the romance novel underneath a cushion and picked up Homer’s _Odyssey_. "Yes?", he said.

"Letter for you, sir," said a footman. "Just came." And the man handed over a crisply folded white piece of paper with a green wax seal. His full name was written on the back, slightly misspelled, in a fine hand that he did not recognize. 

Aziraphale cracked the letter open. 

**_Dear Mr. Aziraphael Fell,_ **

**_Miss. Constance Crawleigh requests the pleasure of your company on Wednesday afternoon at 2:00PM. Come alone. Miss. Crawleigh is staying at 15 Russell Square. Please send your reply to that address._ **

Aziraphale read the letter three times. He couldn't understand what was happening or how it could be so. But he trusted Crowley.

***

The carriage driver pulled up in front of a row of beautiful four-storey buildings with elaborate facades. The footman climbed down from the back of the carriage and knocked on the door of a house whose ground-floor curtains were all drawn. A butler with a bald head and grey sideburns opened the door, and had a brief conversation with the footman. 

"You're all set, sir," the footman told Aziraphale. "The young lady is at home with her chaperone. They'll send a boy to fetch us when your visit is over."

Aziraphale descended to the pavement. He tried to look confident. As he approached the front door, his carriage departed, leaving him alone at the strange address. 

"Mr. Fell," said the butler. "Welcome." He brought Aziraphale into an ordinary little front hall with a number of busts and a longcase clock. With crisp and efficient movements, he took Aziraphale’s hat, gloves and cane and disappeared around a corner.

There was a single door open off the entrance hall and it led to an enormous parlour in which every piece of furniture was covered with a white dust cover. The clock in the hall struck two and the sound reverberated off the walls. 

The butler returned. “This way sir,” he said. And he led him into an impressively large central foyer where the staircase had no carpet and every plinth was covered with a white cloth. The butler led Aziraphale behind the main staircase, through a hidden door, and down a flight of stairs. 

There, in the dimly lit servants' hallway, was a lanky red haired man with a massive scar on the side of his face. 

Aziraphale didn't even get a chance to register anything else about his husband when he found himself tackled and pinned to the wall. Crowley's arms were around him, and he was applying sobbing kisses to Aziraphale's cheeks before his lips made their way to Aziraphale's ears and filled them with the strangest mix of curses and endearments that Aziraphale had ever heard. Then Crowley's hands were on the sides of his jaw and his face was being tilted back and forth. 

Aziraphale's eyes slid towards the butler, who was smiling. 

"S' all fine, angel," said Crowley. " 'S safe. He's one of us. Come to me. It's safe."

Aziraphale's lips found Crowley's and he tasted salt and dampness. He couldn't see for the water in his eyes. He felt his nose running onto his upper lip, which should disgust him, but he couldn't stop kissing or let go of Crowley to wipe his nose. He slid his hands to the seams of Crowley's waistcoat and fisted the cloth in his hands as tightly as he could. He kissed and sobbed and squeezed, and it wasn't until he started to feel faint from lack of air that he pulled his mouth away from Crowley's. They rested their foreheads together, their noses resting against each other's damp cheeks, and they panted. Aziraphale untangled one hand from Crowley's clothes and found his hand and laced their fingers together. 

"Angel," said Crowley. 

"I feared you were gone," said Aziraphale. "I pretended I wasn't afraid, but I thought I'd never see you again."

"Never leave you," said Crowley. "Always was there. Just out of sight. Kept an eye on you."

They tumbled over each other like kittens, rolling along the wall, kissing and pressing their bodies together and asking questions: "Where do you live?" and "Have they hurt you?" and "Are you safe?"

Aziraphale pulled out a handkerchief and tried to mop Crowley's face but it was a wasted effort. The tears came faster than any cloth could handle. Both of them laughed at the ridiculousness of it. 

"I have your wedding ring," said Aziraphale. He reached into his shirt and pulled the gold chain off over his head and put it over Crowley's. Crowley accepted the ring around his neck. He wrapped one hand around it and the other around Aziraphale's waist so that they were locked together from the navels down, and there was just enough space between their chests for them to both look down at Crowley's fist holding the ring.

"When they took it," Crowley said. "It almost broke me. I was afraid you'd think I left you."

"Never," said Aziraphale. "Never."

"I don't want another ring," said Crowley. "I want this one. I don't care that it's the wrong size. It's mine. It's from you."

They kissed some more, and then they wrapped their arms around each other and pressed their bodies together completely. They twisted together as tightly as snakes, moving arms and faces constantly to seek out more points of contact. Crowley started cursing softly into Aziraphale's ear again. "Aziraphale," he said. "By Christ. Fuck. Angel. Fuck. My love. My own. Bastards. By God."

"We should sit down somewhere," said Aziraphale.

"Shall I show you gentlemen to your room?", said a deep and measured voice.

"What?", said Aziraphale. He'd forgotten they weren't alone. He turned his head in time to see that the butler was tucking a small handkerchief into the pocket of his breeches. 

The butler led them to a narrow and echoing stairwell. They kept their fingers laced together, Crowley climbing first, and Aziraphale behind him, as they climbed all the way up to the top of the stairwell and into the attic. The butler opened a door to reveal a room with a sloped ceiling, a gabled dormer and a double bed made up with pillows and a patchwork quilt. There was a table piled with folded towels, and a wash table with a large basin and ewer and a dish of soap and a little ceramic pot with a lid. The table in front of the dormer had a complete tea service for two and a triple tiered serving plate piled with finger sandwiches and meat and fruit. Next to the food, there was a tiny white vase full of blue forget-me-not's. 

Aziraphale stood and stared in wonder. It was the humblest room he had seen in over a year, and it was also the most beautiful indulgence he could imagine. 

"Is there anything else you need?", the butler asked.

"No," said Crowley. "And thank you."

"My goodness," said Aziraphale, after the butler left. "Who is he? Whose house is this? How did you arrange this?"

Crowley smiled. "Love finds a way," he said. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	15. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley find that getting back together is glorious and also painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Sex. Getting hurt from sex. Excessively casual use of morphine. 
> 
> Chapter rated E for excessive indulgence.
> 
> Summary of the major plot points are in the end notes, for those who are inclined to skip this chapter.

May 1826 Tadfield

Mrs. Young spread out a clean tablecloth on the kitchen table and opened all the curtains as Aziraphale requested. The children, even sixteen-year-old Sarah, all gathered around the table and watched eagerly as Aziraphale pulled the parcel out of his bag. 

“Here it is!”, said Aziraphale. “All the way from London. My friend in London sent it to me last month. I’ve told him all about your family, and he wanted me to give this to you.”

Bringing yet another gift for the family library was a feeble excuse to impose himself upon Mrs. Young off of their usual schedule, and Aziraphale knew it. He felt a little guilty about the fact that she was losing a half day’s work at the farm to entertain him, but time was slipping away from him and he couldn’t bring himself to wait till June to see the little family that he had made his own. 

Aziraphale untied the string and unwrapped the paper. Then he laid the thick and many times folded piece of paper onto the table and very carefully unfolded it. 

“Can’t see! Can’t see!”, said Wensleydale. And Sarah picked him up and put him on her hip. 

“A map of all of London!”, said Adam. “That’s the Thames!”

“What’s that big red dot?”

“No touching, Brian,” said Aziraphale. He grabbed the five year old’s grubby hand before it could touch the precious paper. “This map used to belong to a carriage company in London. The red dot represents the location of the company, and the colourful rings that are drawn around the streets correspond to the fares charged.”

“Did your friend steal it from the carriage company in the dead of night?”, asked Pepper.

“No,” said Aziraphale. “My friend saved it from being burned.”

“But,” said Adam. “Why would you burn a great wonderful map like this? Who would do such a dastardly thing?”

“Well, young man,” said Aziraphale. “This map of London is several years older than you are. And, just like people, cities can grow. There are so many more streets in London than there were when this map was purchased. It is no longer accurate.”

“I thought only alive things grew,” said Pepper.

“I suppose,” said Aziraphale. “That sometimes things grow even when we don’t expect them to.”

“Cities can grow,” said Adam. “Banging!”

***

May 1813, a garrett at 15 Russell Square in London

Crowley rested his chin on top of Aziraphale’s head and realized that the two of them didn’t quite fit together in the comfortable way that they used to. He had to stretch his neck a little. It wasn’t bad, exactly. But it was different. 

“You’ve gotten taller,” said Crowley. He traced his fingers along the side of Aziraphale’s face.

“I thought I was done growing,” said Aziraphale.

“Surprise,” said Crowley. And he smiled down at his angel. “My bones didn’t stop growing until I was twenty-one.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley traced his fingers over Aziraphale’s shoulders. "I've never actually fully undressed you," Crowley said. "May I?" 

Aziraphale nodded. He looked nervous and bashful, and so Crowley was very careful. He unbuttoned the tail coat and then stepped behind him like a valet and helped him out of it. He hung it on the back of a chair. Then he took off his own coat. Aziraphale was already working on the buttons of his own waistcoat, so Crowley waited for him and then helped him slip out of it. 

"Sit," said Crowley. "I'll get your shoes." He did, and then he unbuckled the fastenings of the breeches below the knee. Aziraphale stood up, just like any lord would, and started to unbutton the front flap while Crowley went around to the back and did the buttons there, just he used to do when he was a footman. But then Aziraphale leaned up against him, and the normal pattern disappeared. Crowley slid his hands around to cradle his husband's chest. He laid kisses along his neck. Aziraphale grabbed onto Crowley's arms and held on. Crowley heard his husband make some strange noises and so he stopped kissing to listen. 

"Sorry," said Aziraphale. "Didn't mean to start up again."

"Are you crying?"

"Only a bit," said Aziraphale. Then he tried to fish a handkerchief out of the pocket of his breeches, but, of course, the pocket wasn't where he expected it to be because the front flap of his breeches was folded over. 

Crowley stepped around to the front and saw twin tracks of wet on his husband's cheeks. He kissed his way up one track of tears and then the other and then he kissed Aziraphale's forehead. "See?" he said. "All gone." Then he kneeled in front of Aziraphale and slid his hands down his husband's sides to pull the breeches down to the floor. He didn't remember to help Aziraphale step out of them. He simply sat back on his heels and ran his fingers gently along the waves of silver-white hair between the tops of the stockings and the bottom of Aziraphale’s long linen shirt. 

He felt something wet land on his forearm and he looked up to find that Aziraphale was crying again. But these weren't tears of joy. The angel was biting his lip; his hands were clenching and twisting at his sides. "What's wrong?," said Crowley. 

"I want to touch you back," said Aziraphale. "I've been waiting to touch you for so long," he said. "And we only have a few hours." 

Crowley's stomach dropped. He'd forgotten. He'd been so entranced by his young husband’s perfect thighs that he'd forgotten that he'd put Aziraphale in a position where every part of Crowley that he could reach to touch was out of bounds. Because Crowley had told him so. Because Crowley was broken. Crowley felt a firestorm of unidentifiable dark emotions swirl through him. And then he looked up at Aziraphale's face and the bad feelings flew away and all that was left was love. He stood up and held his innocent lover in his arms. There were certain ways of being innocent that remained even when virginity was gone. And Crowley would protect that innocence to his dying breath. 

"Can we lie down?", said Aziraphale. "We have a bed. I would like to try it."

***

Sharing a bed with Crowley was as wonderful as Aziraphale had hoped it would be. If he was honest, this particular bed left a bit to be desired. It was rather poorly built. It squeaked. The mattress sagged a bit. But it was soft and warm and horizontal, and that was what was needed. They rolled around on it, touching and kissing and tearing off clothing. It took a great deal of discipline for both of them to pause and get out of bed to hang all of Aziraphale’s clothing so that none of it would wrinkle. He had to look impeccable when he returned home. 

And then Crowley was ravishing Aziraphale with his mouth. Aziraphale was on his back; Crowley’s arm’s were bracketing his hips. As the sensations started to get intense, Aziraphale reached his own hand down and squeezed one of Crowley’s hands tightly. It was a habit they had gotten into, back when they had been sneaking around the sheds and follies at Empyrean Hall. Squeezing something helped Aziraphale to not cry out loud. Aziraphale twisted his other hand in the pillow under his head and bit his own lip. He resolved that he would not go off the first instant that he felt the wet heat of his lover’s mouth finally settle around his cock. But it was no use. After so many months alone, his self-control had become non-existent, and he was overwhelmed and he spent his seed completely in under a minute.

Crowley didn’t seem to mind at all. He made deep sighing sounds of satisfaction as he swallowed and then he cursed softly as he kissed his way back up to Aziraphale’s lips. “So beautiful,” Crowley said. “My angel. You taste so good.” 

Crowley wasn’t in any hurry to stop kissing, so Aziraphale enjoyed feeling boneless and having his ears nibbled and his neck bathed by Crowley’s tongue. He could feel how hard his lover’s cock was against his thigh, and he would want that cock, soon enough, but right now he was warm and safe and tingling all over. He could barely keep his eyes open, so he just buried his nose in drifts of red hair and inhaled the scents there and let himself be tended to. He made little mewling noises and sighs, and listened to Crowley’s answering grunts of pleasure. He felt like he was drifting in a time out of time. No pain or loneliness existed anymore. There was just this gentle joy. He was with his husband. Everything was just as it should be. 

As he started to come back to himself and was able to stir again, Aziraphale started to kiss his lover’s temples; then he sat up to trace kisses down Crowley’s neck. And then his dear brilliant lover reared up and offered his handsome chest, and then slowly crawled up the bed on his knees. Aziraphale sat up a little so that he was leaning up against the soft pillows with his arms wrapped around Crowley’s thighs. His lips worked their way around his lover’s hip bones and navel, leaving a trail of little purple bruises along pale white skin, and then he buried his nose into coarse russet curls and let his mouth finally get its fill of the cock it had missed for all these months. 

Crowley braced his hands on the top of the headboard. He was making intense little grunts of need, and yet he was holding his body rigidly still. Aziraphale could feel how much his dear husband longed for release, but he felt so soft and lazy reclining with a warm bed underneath him. It was so nice like this. No cold earth under his knees. No time pressure. 

And so Aziraphale luxuriated. He felt his mouth water and he felt the looseness in his own joints. He nuzzled and lapped and pulled gently at bollocks and foreskin with his lips. He gazed up at a landscape of rolling abdominal muscles topped with a tight narrow chest. The one he loved best of all was looking down at him with an expression of wonder. He reached an arm up and traced his way up the waves of muscles. He touched a nipple and felt the cock in his mouth twitch. He realized that he wanted more points of contact, so he curled his own legs up so that his knees fit into the divots of his lover’s arse. Yes. This was perfect. He was wrapping his own body around his lover from underneath and gently teasing him and making him harder. The cock that he was lapping at was so warm and delicious and firm, and his own prick was starting to rise again. He felt as if he was drunk. But there was one other thing he wanted, something he’d seen at the club. So he pulled off and he made his request. 

“My hair,” said Aziraphale. “I want your fingers tangled in my hair.”

Crowley shook his head. He closed his eyes and kept both of his hands firmly on the headboard. “No,” he said. “Like this is good. And maybe some more of what you were just doing with your thumb. That. There. Christ! Fuck!”

And it wasn’t very much longer before Crowley was shuddering and howling. And then his legs were trembling on either side of Aziraphale’s chest, and his head was bowed and he was looking down at Aziraphale with an expression of deepest reverence.

He panted for a minute, and then he carefully lowered his body to bring himself to lie on top of Aziraphale on the bed. He held up most of his own weight on his elbows and looked deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I would never hurt you angel,” he said. “You are always safe with me.”

***

Crowley hadn’t meant for his first round to be so completely draining. He’d planned to just get the edge off, so that he could focus on truly making love to his sweet young husband. But Aziraphale had spun him up and kept him so hard for so long that he felt like he’d blasted his brains out through his prick and now all he wanted was to lay his head on Aziraphale’s chest and sleep. It was so easy to just let himself relax. His husband's fingers were moving along the back of his shoulder blades. They were tracing little circles that were slowly working their way down his ribs. All of the touch was in bounds. All of it. Because Aziraphale was amazing and perfect. 

“You have a little spray of freckles back here,” said Aziraphale. “I never knew. I adore them.”

“ ‘M not adorable,” said Crowley. “ ‘M an engine of fornic-- fucking-- something.” 

“Yes, of course,” said Aziraphale. “And adorable too.” 

Crowley closed his eyes, and then he had a slightly alarming thought. “Oi,” he said. And he forced his eyes open. “Where’d you learn to do that thing with your thumb? And the other-- the tugging thing?”

“I’ve not touched any man but you,” replied Aziraphale. “But I did join a social club, for gentlemen who are of the persuasion. And I’ve been diligent about asking them for advice.” 

“Eeeeyeah,” said Crowley. “S’all-- um-- just don’t uh--”

“Of course not, darling,” said Aziraphale. “I’m a married man.” He shifted a little underneath Crowley.

“You can’t be hard again already,” said Crowley. “ ‘S not fair.”

“It’s quite alright, my dearest,” said Aziraphale. “You rest. I’m enjoying touching you.”

“Just need a few minutes,” muttered Crowley. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

***

Crowley was as good as his word. Twenty minutes later, he got out of bed and brought over the towels and laid them down in layers, just to be safe. Then he brought over the little pot, which Aziraphale was a little dubious of, and set it on the bedside table. 

“This is the good stuff, angel,” Crowley assured. “Everyone at court swears by it.” But what court was and exactly who had done the swearing was not something Aziraphale got a chance to ask. The smell of the greasy stuff wasn’t particularly good. The popular lubricant at his own club had a slight sandalwood scent which he had come to prefer. 

But then Crowley was bathing him with his tongue and that was good. Then he pried his arse cheeks apart and started to lick and Aziraphale forgot his own name and everything else he had ever known.

There were a few awkward moments as they got started. Aziraphale felt Crowley pause for a moment when his tongue and then his fingers were so easily accepted, and, then again, when Aziraphale opened for his prick so quickly. Aziraphale knew that he should have explained, but he was half-drunk on need and sensation. He was alive for the first time in months, and he was mute with the strangeness of it.

The greasy stuff in the pot proved to be more than acceptable. It was smooth and slick and it lasted really well because even after being attended to for nearly ten minutes, Aziraphale still felt great. Of course, that might also be due to the fact that he had devoted last night and this morning to preparations. The instruction that his new friends had given him had been very helpful, and the twenty pounds he’d optimistically spent on his new toys and sanitary equipment had likewise been well worth it. 

Crowley had set a gentle pace and Aziraphale was floating, rocking back and forth in a haze of pleasure and pain. Eventually, he shifted to try to make the angle a little better. Finally, with his husband’s help, he got his other leg up onto Crowley's shoulder and the pleasure part intensified and he was seeing stars. He made tiny breathy pants and little nods to let Crowley know that it was perfect. Beyond perfect, better than it had ever been.

Crowley kissed him on the forehead and then on both cheeks, and then he really started to move, and Aziraphale was flying higher than he ever had before. Crowley was Aziraphale's entire world. He could feel him inside, and he felt the soft skin of Crowley's shoulders under the backs of his calves and Crowley’s hands on his thighs and Crowley’s ribs under his fingertips. His husband's whole body was above him, arms, chest, face. Everywhere he looked Crowley was there. Crowley’s wedding ring hung from his neck and swung back and forth between them as they moved together. Crowley bent his head to the side and kissed the back of Aziraphale's calf, and Aziraphale felt himself turn completely to jelly. 

And then Aziraphale realized something. Something amazing. 

He could make noise if he wanted to. They were in a vacant house. They had permission to be here from some old butler who had cried over their reunion and left them flowers in a vase. He'd given them towels and some really fantastic grease so that they could do exactly what they were now doing. They were completely safe. So Aziraphale opened his mouth. No sound at all came out. He’d spent so many months making silence his fearful habit that his throat had closed by instinct even when he wanted to be loud. He took a deep breath and tried again, and managed a little grunt. And, somehow, Crowley understood exactly what he was trying to do, and he snapped his hips a little harder and growled in his ear:

“That’s right, angel,” he said. “Sing for me. It’s safe. I want to hear your voice.”

And Aziraphale threw back his head onto the soft creaky bed and he wailed so loud that he felt his chest vibrating from the sound. Crowley fucked him, and, in return, he cursed. He screamed out fragments of prayers. He screamed out his lover's name. 

After a minute, Crowley slowed down. 

“I think that’s probably enough, yeah?”, he said.

“More,” said Aziraphale. He reached down and grabbed his magnificent lover by the arse and pulled him in deep. “Don’t you dare stop.” 

Crowley looked a bit alarmed. “Are you sure?”, he asked.

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered. Crowley compiled but not before applying more of the magical lubricating stuff to his own prick. And then, just when Aziraphale was starting to really fly, he stopped moving again and said:

“All right, angel, I really think it’s time.”

It most certainly wasn’t.

“I want to feel every inch of you,” Aziraphale cried. “Bury yourself in me. Plow into me.” And his plea worked: Crowley's eyes grew dark and he bared his teeth and he snapped his hips with vigour.

"Like this, angel?", he said. And Aziraphale braced his hands on the headboard and howled his pleasure. 

Crowley did keep stopping, every few minutes. Sometimes for more of the grease, sometimes to pant with effort as he bent over and rested his forehead on Aziraphale's cheek. Whenever Crowley stopped, Aziraphale urged him on. His legs were starting to ache, his middle felt cramped from being doubled over, his arsehole was starting to twinge in a way that portended that he might have some regrets later. But the intense pleasure was greater than the pain and he couldn’t bring himself to care. His mind was floating, and he didn't want to ever land on Earth again. 

"No, don't stop," Aziraphale said. He was shaking all over. "I never want to stop feeling you."

Crowley shook his head. He wouldn't be driven any further. He took one of Aziraphale's legs down off of his shoulder and laid it on the bed. Then he pried Aziraphale's hand off the headboard and deposited a glop of the grease into his palm. "Go on," he said. "It's time. Spill for me." 

Aziraphale did as he was told. He had to close his eyes as he stroked himself because the light in the room became overwhelming. Inside his body, he felt Crowley making slow steady circular thrusts. “Come on angel,” he said. “Give it to me.” Crowley nibbled on the back of his calf and that slight pain was some sort of a trigger because it released him and he felt his own body clenching around his husband’s cock. The ecstasy was blinding. It went on and on and on. He felt the warmth pulsing out of him but he didn’t feel it land. He had no idea where he even was. He was completely lost. He couldn't have said his own name. He heard groaning noises and he didn't know if the voice that made them was his or Crowley's. 

Eventually, as though from a distance, he felt his leg being moved and he felt the cold sheet against the side of his thigh. Crowley's cock slipped away. There was a pins-and-needles sensation in that leg from his arsehole to the bottom of his foot. He didn't care. He looked up and Crowley was kneeling over him, with his own cock in his hand. He was tossing off and cursing vigourously. As he reached his climax, he fell over Aziraphale, striping his chest with warmth. 

“Fuck," said Crowley. "So beautiful." He was panting heavily. “My own treasure. Oh God. That was phenomenal . . . I've never. . . You are a wonder.” Then he was kissing Aziraphale’s cheeks. And then his lips. But sloppily. And then he was breathing against Aziraphale's ear. “You feel alright, angel? Yeah?” 

Aziraphale nodded. He felt like he had a warm glowing lantern on his insides. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He felt Crowley's weight shifting in the bed, and the motion made him dizzy and light headed. Then he recognized a familiar comforting scent nearby, and he turned his face and buried his nose in the rough curls of the sideburn on Crowley's cheek. There. Now he was home.

"You made a mess of everything," Crowley said. "I've never seen anyone spill like that."

Aziraphale murmured. "Hold me."

"Need to clean up," said Crowley. “The headboard. You managed to hit the headboard.”

"Uh-uh," said Aziraphale. "Stay. Rest." He pulled his lover closer, and, after a token resistance, Crowley obediently curled up against his side. Then Aziraphale closed his eyes again and floated off to sleep. 

***

A million minutes later, Aziraphale opened his eyes. He saw a wooden wall in front of him. Something seemed wrong with its angle. He realized that the wall was the sloping ceiling above him. The effort of figuring that out made him sleepy. Then he realized there was a tapping at the door.

"Constance!", said the butler. "You have forty-five minutes left." 

By his side, Crowley jerked to life and started thrashing. 

"Oh no!" said Crowley. "I fell asleep. We fell asleep. Lost our afternoon. What a fool I was. Oh angel. I'm so sorry. I wasted our hours." He started to shake and then he bit his fist in obvious frustration. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his back and kissed his warm forehead and hushed him.

When Crowley was finally able to pull himself together, Aziraphale looked down upon him and smiled. "We fell asleep together," said Aziraphale. "In a bed. Like married people do." 

Crowley sighed, and it seemed, for an instant, like he would stay relaxed, but then he sprung up beside Aziraphale and grabbed his shoulders with both hands.

"Aziraphale," said Crowley. "There's so much we have to talk about. I've got a new job. I won't have to flog broken-down nags around the docks anymore. I'm going to drive cabs. I start in two months actually. The duke gave me a reference. He's never even seen me work with horses. Just trusts me, I suppose. I need to give you the new address. It's on the north side of the city, in a new area. Just being built now. I'm going to live above the stables. No bed, but there's always straw, and I get a box of my own, with a lock. You can write to me there. I've got friends who can read for me and help me answer your letters."

"Wait. What? You're staying in London permanently?"

"Yes," said Crowley. "Where else can I live? But we can see each other in the winter and spring. It's backwards from how we thought, but it can be better. We can rent rooms for an hour here and there until we can afford a place of our own. My pay won't be much at first, but there's room to grow. And I'll save every penny for our future."

That had been a torrent of words, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about all of these plans. They were probably good. Crowley was indisputably clever. So clever that it took Aziraphale’s breath away sometimes. But there wouldn’t be time today for Aziraphale to formulate his thoughts and answer his husband. Crowley was over at the basin, dipping flannels into the water and wringing them with swift efficiency. 

Aziraphale rolled out of bed, gingerly. He was covered in a dried mess. As he tried to stand up, he felt a stabbing pain in his arsehole. He grabbed the headboard of the bed for support and took a slow, deep breath. The pain subsided. His legs were jelly. He took a shuffling step forward. Now he wasn't under the sloped ceiling anymore. He was a little worn out, but it would soon be fine. He just needed a minute to get his bearings. 

Crowley handed him one damp cloth and started working at Aziraphale's chest with another. "Can't send you home smelling like you’ve had a turn on your back," he said. Aziraphale decided to start with his face, which was a bit crusty and sticky. Crowley was attacking his chest and belly with firm circular strokes as if he was a horse. 

Crowley spoke rapidly as he scrubbed. It reminded Aziraphale of listening to the clattering of a steam driven factory machine. "I'm not sure where we can go to live," Crowley said. "That's the problem I’m considering right now. Some areas are safer than others for men like us. But in order to start out we need to save money. I'm going to start a bank account. I don’t know how much money you’ll be able to sneak away without your family noticing." He paused. "Hold on," he said, "These flannels aren’t doing you any good any more, toss yours to the floor, I'll get you a fresh one.”

Crowley ran to the basin and dipped in two more flannels and soaped them and squeezed them out. He strode over and pressed a fresh flannel into Aziraphale's hands. "Start with your hair this time," he said. "You made quite a mess of yourself. Yeah, scrub that bit again. Can't be too careful." And then Aziraphale caught Crowley’s hands and held them around the warm wet cloths. 

"Please," said Aziraphale. "Just, slower, please. I want to enjoy what time we have left."

Crowley shook his head. He tried to be slower. He started working his way lower down Aziraphale’s body, and his hands were a bit gentler. "I need to tell you everything," he said. "Just in case. . ." The unspoken end of that sentence hung in the air between them. Crowley's voice became a little more quiet and slow. "I'm living here with the duke for now," he said. "The duke thinks it will be at least a few months before this house sells. So you can send letters here for the time being; the duke will pretend that a lady lives here so that your servants won’t figure it out. You might be able to visit again, too. Men do come through sometimes: lawyers, assessors, those sorts. But most times are good. The duke says--"

"Who is the duke?", said Aziraphale. His muscles were shaky and he couldn’t seem to focus his mind as the stream of words flowed by, so he seized on this single word. "Which duke? How on Earth did you earn the favour of a duke?"

Crowley's jaw dropped open. Then it closed. He held up a single finger. "The duke," he said, "Is what I call Mr. Waxdall." He paused. "Sometimes." And then: "Mr. Waxdall is the butler."

"Ah," said Aziraphale. He didn't understand, but he decided that it was best to try to keep focused on how to keep in contact with Crowley. "And does Mr. Waxdall always know where to find you?"

"Errrrryeah, complicated," said Crowley. "He's looking for new work too." He made a funny hand gesture that seemed to indicate happenings of a distressing nature, and Aziraphale intuited that Mr. Waxdall's employer had either died or was having major financial or legal troubles.

“Can you spread your legs?”, said Crowley. 

It turned out that that was easier said than done. Aziraphale was very tender, and it was amazing how many muscles connected directly to his arsehole. “Oh no,” said Crowley. “I hurt you. Oh, God. Angel. I’m so sorry. I knew it was too much. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“It’s nothing,” said Aziraphale. “Just get me a fresh cloth. I’ll do this part.” And when Crowley had his back turned, he tried to lift up one leg to put it up onto the board that ran along the side of the bed frame. But before he could get the foot so much as an inch off the floor he felt the beginning of that same distinctive twinge as before. He cursed under his breath. He needed to keep focussed on the important things. The pain would probably ease off in a few minutes. A few minutes of discomfort was completely worth it because whenever he was still, he had a truly fabulous full-body tingling floating feeling that felt like it would last for days. 

As he gingerly cleaned his tender body, Aziraphale tried to focus on that tingling feeling, and on the memory of the most intense climax of his life. He kept his face under control. No need to scare Crowley any further. Crowley looked a bit frantic. He was scrubbing at his own body with violent speed; he clearly needed something to do other than worry.

Aziraphale spoke very calmly. "I will want all of your addresses, past, present, and future," he said. "And the addresses and names of everyone who can possibly locate you. Everything else can be sorted later."

Crowley spun around and tossed the rag to the ground. Then, naked except for a gold chain with a ring on it, he rummaged through the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "There!", he said. He opened it and set it on the table next to the tea service. "That's the address for the new stable. And you know this place. I'm not at the rooming house anymore, and the other one, well you can't really come looking for me there."

"The other one?"

"It's a . . . a supper club," said Crowley. "Sort of secret though." He shrugged and spread his arms.

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "A molly house."

***

Crowley blinked, hard. Aziraphale had said a number of strange things this afternoon. But this was the strangest yet. 

“Where did you learn such a rude phrase, angel?”, said Crowley. 

“Are you visiting houses of prostitution?” replied Aziraphale. 

“What?”, said Crowley. “No.”

“Then why is your ‘supper club’ so secret that I can’t have the address?”

“Because those are the rules,” said Crowley. 

There was a knock at the door. “Twenty minutes, Constance.”

“Yes, thank you, Your Grace,” said Crowley.

“Shall I send Henry to fetch Mr. Fell’s carriage?”, said the duke.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale for an answer. Aziraphaled looked crestfallen and confused. 

“What time is it, Your Grace?”, said Crowley. 

“Twenty minutes before five o’clock, dear girl,” said the voice on the other side of the door. 

“You need to be home for supper, yeah?”, asked Crowley.

Aziraphale gave a tiny nod. 

Crowley walked over to the door. “Yes,” he said, loud and clear. “Mr. Fell will be downstairs in twenty minutes.” Then he walked over to the pile of Aziraphale’s clothes. “Come on,” he said. “Let's get you dressed.”

“You can’t dress me,” said Aziraphale. “You’re naked yourself.”

Crowley smiled. “Not naked. I’m wearing your wedding ring.”

That finally earned him a giggle.

“Please don’t worry,” said Aziraphale. “I can dress myself.” He walked over to the chair where his clothes were, and Crowley saw the careful stiff-legged slowness of his gait. 

“I want to help you,” said Crowley. He picked up Aziraphale’s fine linen shirt and helped him put it on and adjust the collar. 

“Oh no! Where are my cufflinks?”

“Table by the bed,” said Crowley. “I’ve got you. No need to worry. Sit,” he said. “Start on your stockings.”

Aziraphaple sat, with some amount of grace, but when he tried to bend over to do his own stockings, Crowley saw him twitch. He couldn't quite reach his own feet.

Aziraphale required help with the stockings. They did the rest together in the traditional way: breeches, cufflinks, waistcoat, shoes, cravat, and tailcoat. It took less than ten minutes. Aziraphale’s hair was messy, but since Crowley had never seen it in any other state, he judged it to be good enough. 

“There,” said Crowley. “You’re beautiful.” 

They kissed again. Aziraphale took the paper with the address for the stables and slipped it into the pocket of his breeches. He kept his hand in that pocket as if he would keep the paper safe that way. As if he could prevent the two of them from ever losing each other again. He looked up at Crowley and Crowley could see the misgivings written all over his face. But what could they do? They could spend their last minutes together arguing and worrying, or they could embrace. It was an easy choice. 

They stood and held each other in the little attic room. Crowley was wearing nothing but a diamond and pearl ring on a gold chain; Aziraphale was a completely dressed gentleman with a gold ring on his smallest finger. Crowley rested his head on top of Aziraphale's. Now that he wasn't wearing shoes, he had to stretch his neck a little more than before. 

“You have love marks,” said Aziraphale. He touched Crowley’s naked hip. “To remember the afternoon by.”

“I was careful,” said Crowley. He pulled back so that he could look his lover in the eyes. “I didn’t leave any bruises on you. I checked.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. He winced as he smiled. “I think I’ll remember anyway.”

“I wanted to stop sooner,” said Crowley. “You should have told me to stop.” He tried to keep the shame from overwhelming him. They didn't have time for sad scenes and worries. But Aziraphale found the perfect thing to say to make it right.

“I want to feel you for as long as I can,” said Aziraphale. “So I don’t start thinking that this afternoon was never real. That’s how it seemed all these months, you know. When I couldn’t find you. Sometimes I wondered if all that time we had spent together had been just a figment of my imagination.”

There was another knock at the door. “Mr. Fell,” said the voice on the other side. “It’s time, sir.”

They didn’t kiss again. They held hands and looked into each other’s eyes. 

Crowley didn’t cry. He willed himself not to cry. His angel’s last memory of him must be as happy as possible. 

“I’ll see you again soon,” said Crowley. “I promise.”

And then Crowley's pretty little gentleman angel squeezed his hand one last time and let go. Aziraphale walked, stiff-legged and slowly, to door of the little attic room. He gave Crowley once last brilliant smile, and then he went through the door and pulled it shut behind him. Crowley heard two sets of footsteps walk away down the hall and then down the stairs. He stood and listened until long after the last echoes had faded. 

***

Aziraphale approached the steep servants’ staircase very carefully. He was still half floating from the best climax of his life. He also had an ache in his arsehole and the muscle at the back of one leg was twinging in an ominous way. But he didn’t have to hide his pain from the man he was with. When he winced as he set foot on the first narrow triangular tread of the twisty staircase, the older man offered him a steadying hand. 

“Slowly, Mr. Fell, sir,” said Mr. Waxdall. 

“Thank you.” 

There were so very many stairs. It was hard to concentrate on them. Aziraphale’s legs were very wobbly and his feet were not reliably landing where he expected them to. The first steps gave him stabbing pain, but then he got used to it and he learned to pause and hold his breath before taking each step to keep from whimpering. 

Today’s brief reunion had left Aziraphale feeling joyous and devastated at the same time and that peculiar combination of emotions was making his eyes have trouble knowing where to focus. It was hard to predict the irregular shapes of the treads of the steep stairs, especially in the places where they bent around a corner. Those corners did seem to come up very frequently. But the sturdy old butler was there at every turn, steadying him and taking his weight with a hand that seemed to be made of steel. 

When they reached a landing at last, and he was facing yet another flight of twisty stairs, Aziraphale stopped. He felt his eyes watering. It was hard to find the willpower to want to go on. But the butler opened a little door in the whitewashed wall. 

“The main staircase will be easier, sir,” said the butler. 

Aziraphale nodded and leaned against the wall. 

“Take your time, Mr. Fell.” 

A boy, around twelve years old, came thundering up the servants' stairs. “Mister Waxdall,” he said. “The man’s carriage is heading around to the front.”

“Thank you Henry,” said the butler. “I will bring the gentleman out. Can you please fetch the laudanum and a tablespoon and bring them to the first floor landing?” The butler offered Aziraphale his arm to lean on, and led him to an uncarpeted and undecorated landing in the above stairs portion of the house. The butler stopped him in the middle of the landing. Black, hawk-like eyes met Aziraphale’s own. “No bleeding?”, murmured the butler.

“No,” said Aziraphale. “But I might have overdone? A bit.”

“Mmmmm,” replied the butler. “Any pain in your belly?”

“I don’t think so. It's all...” He gestured so as to avoid having to say the humiliating words. 

The old man nodded. “Good lesson for you then,” he said. “You’ll remember this.”

The boy brought the laudanum and the butler gave Aziraphale a large spoonful of the bitter stuff and sent the boy away. They had privacy again, and Aziraphale thought that it was best not to delay the little speech he’d been planning.

“Mr. Waxdall,” Aziraphale whispered. “I am so grateful to you for looking after my husband. And I thank you for giving us this opportunity to meet. It means so very much to us both.”

“My pleasure, sir.” 

“I’m wondering, Mr. Waxdall, if I might trouble you for another address where I might be able to reach my dear Crowley. He tells me that this house is only a temporary home for him. While he has hope of new employment, that address isn’t even built yet.”

Aziraphale didn’t say that he was terrified of losing his husband again, but the butler seemed to understand. He met Aziraphale’s eyes with a look of deep understanding and sympathy, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle and slow. 

“I’m afraid that I cannot give you another address, sir,” said Mr. Waxdall. “Much as I wish I could.” 

When they reached the ground floor, he led Aziraphale into a room that turned out to be his office. He opened an alphabetized box of cards and pulled one out and set it down in front of Aziraphale. It had Aziraphale’s name, slightly misspelled, and the correct addresses of both his London townhouse and his country home in Oxfordshire. “I will endeavour to help you and your husband to exchange letters,” he said. “I have the address of your country home, but perhaps you could confirm it, and also give me any other addresses where you might commonly be found or where you might have sympathetic friends.”

Aziraphale nodded. He looked over the butler’s card. Then he carefully printed his favorite sister’s address, as well the address of one of his new friends, onto the piece of paper that Waxdall provided. Under those addresses, he wrote his full name in clear letters, so that the butler would have the spelling. His hand shook as he laid the butler’s quill back into its box. The pieces of paper in this office were the only connection between himself and his husband. A single piece of thick paper in a stranger’s file box could be strong enough to link two people, to give them the ability to find each other and protect each other. And that piece of paper could so easily disappear. 

There was a knock on the door, and the boy appeared again. “The carriage is here, sir,” he said.

“Thank you Henry,” said the butler. “Please set the table for supper for the three of us.”

Mr. Waxdall led Aziraphale back to the front hall of the house and fetched his things.

“I understand,” said the butler. “I truly do. For nearly two decades now, I’ve had to leave the one I love every summer for my work in the countryside.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

“Henry, the hall boy, is the oldest grandson of my own dear love. He’s a comfort to me when we two are separated.” Waxdall looked deep into Aziraphale’s eyes as if he was searching his soul. Then he nodded solemnly. “I'll tell your coachman that you’ve pulled a muscle at the back of your leg,” he said. He lowered his voice: “A hot water bottle wrapped in a soft cloth will help. Keep your feet up as much as possible. You’ll feel better in a few days.”

***

Crowley had supper in the servants’ dining room with Mr. Waxdall and Henry the hall boy. They ate the food that the duke had set out for the tea that Azriaphale and Crowley hadn’t had time to eat. As they finished their supper, there was a ringing at the back door. The butler himself answered. 

The duke brought a very tall man with a familiar looking face into the servants’ dining room. It was the Queen Mother, but dressed as an ordinary middle class man with a top hat and dark green tailcoat. In her hand was a bottle of wine. 

“Delivery of wine for the house,” said the Queen Mother, setting the bottle down on the table.

Crowley had never seen the Queen Mother without a wig and make up. When she entered the room, he stood up and fought the urge to curtsy. 

“Grandfather!”, cried Henry the hall boy. “You came! Will you tell me a bedtime story?” He jumped out of his seat and threw himself into the tall man’s arms and was instantly lifted high into the air so that his head nearly touched the ceiling.

“Mr. Chancy,” said the butler. “Allow me to introduce Anthony Crowley. Mr. Crowley, this is my dearest friend, Richard Chancy.” 

After the re-introduction, Crowley kept out of the way of the happy family reunion. He cleared the table and then went to the kitchen to wash the dishes while Mr. Waxdall and Mr. Chancy put Henry to bed. As he was walking by the servants’ dining room, he saw the couple sitting at the table toasting with crystal goblets. 

“It’s drinkable,” said the duke. “Barely.” 

“Fell off a lurry,” replied the Queen Mother. “That’s what gives it that earthy flavour.” She looked up to see Crowley lingering at the doorway. “Come sit with us, Constance! You must have a glass. How many years has it been since you’ve tasted wine?”

They poured him a very full glass before he even sat down. It was incredibly generous of them to share such a treat. The last time Crowley had had wine had been when he was clearing up after an enormous dinner and racing with the other footmen to see who could finish off the most glasses from the table. Of course, this wine was nowhere near as smooth and velvety as the table wines in Empyrean Hall. It was rough and dry and unimpressive. As he swirled it around his mouth, it occurred to Crowley that the butler at Empyrean Hall must have known that the footmen were drinking the leftover wine from all those dinners. He must have deliberately allowed it, probably so that they could develop their palates and be prepared to rise to become butlers who curated wine cellars for their masters. Though Crowley hadn’t fully understood it at the time, all aspects of a life in service, even seemingly spontaneous moments such as late-night wine filtching, were part of a plan ordained from above. His life had never really been his own until two years ago, when an act of casual violence had ruined his face and forever cast him out of the orderly world of the house servant. 

Crowley didn’t realize how far away his mind had wandered as he sipped his wine, but when the duke started talking again, he startled. 

“Today I finally met the girl who has won our Constance’s heart,” said Duke Bottomly. “She’s a young beauty. And a gentlewoman.”

“Hmmmmm,” said the Queen Mother. “A society girl. Quite a catch. But potentially hard to satisfy?”

“Well our Constance gave her a good seeing-to,” said the duke. “She could barely walk out of here.”

The Queen Mother snickered. “Ah, to be young and in love and reasonably quick to recover from overindulgence,” she said. She caught a glimpse of Crowley’s face as she topped up his glass. “You look far too glum for a girl who’s just spent the afternoon grinding her tool.”

Crowley looked down at the table. He didn’t want to talk about how guilty he felt for hurting his angel. “It’s not the same as it was,” he said at last. It sounded ungrateful when he said it. But when he looked up, both of his more mature drinking companions were looking at him with sympathy. So he struggled with his thoughts, and he finally found some words that he could share: “It’s been only five months we’ve been apart,” he said, “But she’s changed so much. She had opinions about the grease the duke gave us. She knew some new tricks that I never taught her. And she was aggressive. Told me what to do. I felt like I didn’t quite know who I was with.”

“Has she not been as faithful as you have been, dear Constance?”, said the Duke Bottomly.

Crowley shook his head. “She says she hasn’t touched anyone. But she’s joined a ‘social club’.” He bit his lip. 

The Queen Mother magnanimously refrained from pointing out that Crowley had done the same. She just patted his hand. “It’s difficult when you can’t see each other regularly,” she said. “Very easy for misunderstandings to arise. You’ll both need to be patient with each other. Sometimes these things do work out in the long run. Did you know that for the first five years that the duke and I were together, we only saw each other once every fortnight at best?”

Duke Bottomly sighed, put a hand on the Queen Mother’s forearm and started to rub it affectionately. 

“I used to make deliveries at this very house when she first became butler here,” said the Queen Mother.

“Her Highness used to deliver the cases of wine,” said the duke. His eyes sparkled. “The wine cellar in this house is very isolated from the rest of the house. You could scream your head off down there and no one would hear you.” 

Crowley stared at his wine glass. He was having a hard time feeling cheered up. The Queen Mother took his hand into her own and squeezed it gently. “Every bugger in the world overindulges at least once. We all survive.”

“The queen and I made the same mistake when we were younger,” said the duke. “Your angel will be fine.”

“She’s better off than I ever was,” said the Queen Mother. “My lurry cart didn’t have cushioned seats. Or shock absorbing springs.”

***

The first few minutes of the carriage ride home were uncomfortable. But, by the time Aziraphale reached his own townhouse, the laudanum was working. And what a difference it made. Aziraphale was feeling no pain. He was tingly all over. It felt like he was completely wrapped up by the ghost of the tremendous earth-shattering climax that he'd enjoyed earlier in the afternoon. He felt almost like he was floating. 

Aziraphale knew that the lack of pain was an illusion, and so he climbed down the stairs of his carriage and down to the pavement in a deliberate, slow, way. That was his goal for the evening: moving deliberately and not reinjuring himself. The butler had recommended a hot water bottle and keeping his feet up as much as possible. Spending the evening in bed seemed like a very good idea to Aziraphale, especially since he was feeling a bit emotionally overwhelmed and vulnerable. It would be best not to talk to anyone in his family while he was in this state. 

What he needed to do was be unnoticable. 

He slipped quietly into the house. Everyone was dressing for the evening meal; no one was in the front hall but the doorman. Aziraphale took the stairs very quietly, one careful step at a time, and got all the way to the second landing. There, his path was blocked by his cousin Michael. 

“Well,” said Michael. “You’re back. You look very . . . relaxed.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Yes. I had a pleasant visit today.”

“With whom?”

“Someone I met at a dance,” said Aziraphale.

“Someone?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. He didn’t dare walk past Michael, in case he should happen to limp. So he stood very still and lifted his chin. Michael stared at him for a very long time. He had a funny glint in his eye. He wrinkled his nose and then smiled in a peculiar way. 

“I can’t wait to meet this . . . ‘someone’,” he said. “I’m sure that it will be an interesting day when I do.” Then he shoved on past Aziraphale, knocking into his shoulder. As he passed, he made a peculiar coughing noise that sounded an awful lot like:

“Dog.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has physically grown, and also, thanks to his experiences watching other men at his own club, he's gotten a lot more aggressive sexually. He wants to be used more roughly than Crowley is comfortable with, but he pushes Crowley to give him what he wants until his body gets pushed past his limits. The Duke supplies advice and laudanum. Crowley is confused because Aziraphale is being influenced by people other than himself and he feels tremendously guilty for hurting him.


	16. Arguments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale find that arguments are a regular feature of their relationship. 
> 
> They argue about all the usual things: money, sex, family, and that darned molly house. 
> 
> Crowley gets an opportunity to increase his earnings.

May 1813, London

The driver of the coach pulled up in front of the main entrance to the British Museum at noon. The footman opened the door for him and eighteen-year-old Aziraphale stepped out of his coach.

“Pick me up at five o’clock right here, please,” said Aziraphale. 

“Sir,” replied the footman. And the carriage sped away. 

Aziraphale walked into the front door of the museum, handed over his ticket and made sure to be seen taking a brief private tour of the Egypt collection before he slipped out the side door of the building, walked two streets over and rapped on the front door of 15 Russell Square.

The butler let him in, and Aziraphale hastened inside. He exchanged pleasantries with the little bald man and then kissed his husband and let himself be led up the challenging staircase. When he finally achieved the top landing, Aziraphale decided that, yes, indeed, his backside was off limits for today. Still, he had no regrets. For the past week, he had never once felt any fear that his husband wasn’t real. 

They fell into bed very quickly, found a way to satisfy each other simultaneously, and then lay in each other's arms, naked. Aziraphale really wanted to lounge in bed, but he had some important information to share, and so he sat up and delivered the sombre news.

“You can’t go to your molly house this summer and autumn while I’m gone.”

“Wot?”, said Crowley. “I’ve already told you, I don’t touch any man but you. I just go to socialize. Can’t catch a pox by talking.”

“It’s not about that,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve heard that there’s going to be a concerted city-wide effort, starting in the summer, to raid and shut down molly houses.”

Crowley sat up and tilted his head. “How does an angel hear what constables are up to?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “My social club. Some of the gentlemen are highly placed in government. With the gas lights going up in the city, there will be an effort made to root out some of the less savoury activities that are happening in the streets and public houses. To make the city safer at night.”

Crowley sucked on his front teeth with his tongue. When he drew his tongue back, it made a popping sound. His eyebrows flickered up a little and he tilted his head. “Why would fine gentlemen need to pass around a warning about what’s about to happen to prostitutes in the streets? Surely none of them would ever engage in trade with such lowly individuals.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Well,” he said. “Uh.”

“Convenient, isn’t it?”, said Crowley, “That the raids should commence just after the London Season ends.”

“I’m sure they’re taking advantage of the fact that the population of the city is a bit lower in the summer, and the constables therefore have more resources to devote to the problem,” said Aziraphale. That was what he had been told. “It’s part of the new efforts to try to coordinate resources across the city and to combat corruption.”

“Corruption,” said Crowley. He laid his cheek on his hand and raised his eyebrows incredulously. Then he smiled. His smile was all teeth.

“So you can’t go to your molly house,” concluded Aziraphale. “It isn’t safe anymore.” But Crowley was still smiling that strange smile. “I’m serious,” said Aziraphale. “Darling, you could be hanged!” 

Crowley stopped smiling. His face grew sombre. He folded his hands in his naked lap. “I’m taking it seriously,” he said. “I’ll pass on your warning to all the girls I know.” 

“And you won’t go to your molly house.”

“I only serve the food and drink, angel,” said Crowley. “There’s no law against serving food.”

Aziraphale was furious. He got out of bed and paced the floor in frustration. He tried to convince his husband that, in the event of a raid, the constables were hardly going to distinguish between those caught in flagrante and those who were merely serving the ale. But it was to no avail. Crowley pushed back and demanded to know whether any of those ‘highly placed’ gentlemen in Aziraphale’s club were Members of Parliament, and, if so, why they weren’t making any efforts to stop the raids from happening. 

“They can’t just do that!”, cried Aziraphale. “Their reputations would be ruined.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Wouldn’t want that.” He over-enunciated every word so that Aziraphale couldn’t miss his sarcasm.

“And, besides,” said Aziraphale. “These are mostly prostitutes we’re talking about. They shouldn’t be doing what they are doing. They spread disease and encourage licentiousness. No one is stopping them from finding legal employment, and enforcement of the law will encourage them to find dignified work. Think of the greater good, Crowley.” Crowley scowled, but Aziraphale was undeterred. “It’s true,” Aziraphale said, “That some people will need to be a bit more discreet, especially in the short term, but once the city is cleaned up it will be better for everyone.” 

Crowley just sat there in bed, naked, with his jaw open, blinking his eyes slowly. “Right,” he said at last. “I suppose there’s nothing more to be said on this topic. Come to bed, angel, and make me a happy man again.” 

***

The next week, they’d found a new topic to argue about: money. Aziraphale had brought along one of his lovely new toys, and Crowley, seeing that it was made of ivory, became incensed. “How much money did you spend on that?”, he asked. “I’ll bet it’s more than I earned in the entirety of 1812.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale (he felt rather defensive of his toys), “When I am guaranteed regular access to the thing I prefer, then perhaps I’ll consider selling it. You’ve made me an addict to your cock; I can’t be expected to go for five months without some sort of substitute.” 

“Right,” said Crowley. “I suppose it will keep its value.”

***

By their fourth week in the garrett, Crowley had begun to think of arguments as a necessary way of exciting his husband’s appetites. Some men liked to wrestle a bit to get in the mood, but Aziraphale preferred a good verbal tussle. As long as Crowley kept control of the topics and ended the discussion when Aziraphale was stimulated but not enraged, things worked perfectly well between them. The key was to not get emotionally involved himself. By keeping his mind on his ultimate goal, Crowley was mostly able to keep calm. But sometimes his little aristocrat was maddeningly condescending, and, other times, his angel accidentally pressed him on a sore topic:

“You really should try it,” said the angel, all innocently. “It’s just better if you’ve got a little resistance, a little something to squeeze around when the moment comes. You could try it with just a finger.”

“No, angel,” said Crowley. They’d been on this topic for less than two minutes, and already his patience had expired. “There are some who like that sort of thing, and some who don’t. And I am one of those who doesn’t. Now. Can we talk about something else?” And his angel looked terribly hurt, but he changed the subject. 

***

"I want to discuss this molly house of yours again."

Crowley folded his arms. “I go to a supper club,” he said. “And there’s nothing to discuss. I haven’t touched any man but you. And I won’t.”

"Even so, I don't think you ought to be going there while I’m gone," said Aziraphale. “Your ‘supper club’ could be raided by the constable at any time."

"It's safe," said Crowley. "The owner has more than one thing on the stick. Cockfighting Tuesdays and Saturdays, some other business on the other nights."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, angel, that she has lots of well-placed friends."

"I meant, what's this 'other business'?" 

Crowley shrugged. "Probably best not to ask," he said. 

***

Aziraphale crossed the street and then doubled back, carefully watching the foot traffic on the opposite side. He didn't see any servant from his house. Which meant he hadn't been followed. This time. He turned down a narrow street and walked another ten minutes until he came to a disreputable neighborhood. He walked past a red haired man with a terrible scar on his face who was lounging idly against a wall. Two doors past the man, he slipped into a pawn shop. He wandered around the shop for nearly three minutes, pretending to take in the decor while the man behind the counter looked at him with beady and suspicious eyes. Finally, Crowley walked through the door of the pawn shop. 

"You weren't followed," muttered Crowley. 

"I know that," said Aziraphale. "I was very careful. I've been doing this for six weeks now. I have learned a thing or two."

"Can't be too careful," replied Crowley. He took Aziraphale by the elbow and led him up to the counter. 

"Gentlemen,” said the keeper of the pawnshop. “What have you got for me?"

Aziraphale thumped a fist-sized bag onto the counter. Crowley gave him a quizzical look. "All my own things,” said Aziraphale. “They won’t be missed. I’m not even really unpacking before I set off for my sister’s. I'll pretend that I mislaid them in my summer travels. Won't be a problem at all.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. "They're going to go mad trying to discover the thief," he said. "Somebody could lose his job."

"Well, do you have a better idea? We have to pad our savings account somehow.”

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said the shop owner. "Do you wish to conduct business here today?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I'd like to sell some jewelry and two snuff boxes."

***

It was a Tuesday morning at St. James Park. Aziraphale was standing by the canal, tossing bread crumbs to the ducks. A middle class man with red hair and an unfortunately distinctive scar that wasn't entirely hidden by his sideburns sidled up beside him and started tossing crumbs of his own. 

"I've been thinking about what you've said," said Crowley. "About raids."

"Well," said Aziraphale, "I'm glad to hear it."

"I was thinking," said Crowley. "And I thought, your club isn't that much different from mine, really. But your lot don't have to worry about the pillory or the gallows."

"That's because my club is a social club for gentlemen and yours is a . . ." He looked around and hissed: "House of prostitution."

"Not true at all," said Crowley. "But I admit that a magistrate would see it as such. Which is why I made a plan. Insurance, in case it all goes pear shaped." 

"What?"

"Wrote it down," said Crowley. And he passed over a piece of paper with some scrawled words:

**_AD resh Ov reesh MAwLee Howz_ **

"What? No. Out of the question.” Aziraphale paused and looked around, but there was no one standing near. “There's a code of silence,” he hissed. “You can’t ask me to endanger everyone."

"Endanger what, exactly?", said Crowley. "Endanger a few inheritances? Doesn't even have to be your club. Could be one attended by some men that you don't like. I happen to know for a fact that there are some nasty rich bastards who are of the persuasion.” 

"What you are proposing is wrong, I tell you. Wrong. I won't hear of such a betrayal of trust." 

"Don't act all high and mighty with me," said Crowley. "We both know that your lot can hire lawyers or flee to the continent or pay to have their names conveniently expunged from the public records.”

"No,” said Aziraphale. “That’s my final word.”

Crowley took a step closer and met his eyes. "You are leaving London within weeks," he said. "In the unlikely event that something goes wrong when you're not here, I need something I can use to trade for my life. And this would do the trick." He tilted his head and considered. "Probably could trade the information for two dozen of our little middle class lives, if I was strategic. Londoners do love a big fat scandal. I’d say a bit more than they love a grisly public execution. Wouldn’t you agree?"

Aziraphale shuddered and took a few trembling steps backwards. Then he tore up the paper into pieces and tossed it into the water. "I'm not talking about this,” he said. “It will only encourage your unnecessarily hazardous behavior. Do not try to change my mind. There is no point in discussing it further." 

"As you wish," said Crowley. "Since there's nothing else to discuss, I'll bid you good day." He tipped his hat.

"Wait! Where are you going? You only just arrived."

"Perhaps I'm off to find a companion who is actually willing to take on equal hazards to the ones I accept on his behalf," said Crowley.

"That’s a cruel thing to say!"

"If we can’t meet again before you depart, be sure to enjoy your time in the countryside," said Crowley. "Perhaps we'll find each other again in December.” He touched his hat again. “If I'm still alive."

“Stop it!”, cried Aziraphale. “We can’t have this argument in public.”

“Exactly why I’m leaving.”

***

The argument went around in circles for a half hour until both of them were red-faced and nearly screaming. Finally, Crowley sat on the side of the bed with his hands over his face. Aziraphale, standing over him, sputtered into silence. The little attic room was filled with the sounds of their heaving breaths. After a minute, Aziraphale sat down on the bed next to his husband and put a hand on his knee. 

“I don’t want to spend our last afternoon together having the same useless fight over and over again,” said Aziraphale. “Can we agree to a cease-fire?”

Crowley made a tiny movement with his head which Aziraphale interpreted as conciliatory, so he scooted closer and stroked his husband’s back and the tops of his shoulders. The shoulders were safe to touch, as long as they weren’t engaged in certain acts of love. Aziraphale kept his hands well away from his husband’s neck and hair. The last thing he wanted to do at this moment was to set him off. He felt the tension in his Crowley’s muscles slowly drain away until, at long last, his shoulders finally slumped. 

“Eyah,” Crowley said. “Shouldn’t waste our time. Best get to it.” And he bent over to pull off his boots.

They undressed themselves in a quick and perfunctory way, but as soon as they pressed their bodies together in the bed, habit and instinct took over and they were soon engaged in perfectly satisfactory lovemaking. Aziraphale, feeling a vague sense of unease and guilt, threw himself into pleasuring his husband with his mouth. When Crowley’s blasphemous cries of ecstasy reached his ears, he felt as if he had made some kind of down payment on the strange emotional debt that he seemed to be owing. 

At any rate, after they had both been satisfied, Crowley felt convivial enough to hold Aziraphale in his arms and build castles in the sky with him. 

“By this time next year,” Crowley said, “Or the following year at the latest, we’ll have squirreled away all the money we need to make our escape. And we’ll buy a little cottage in the country far from any nosy neighbors, just as you wish. It will have three rooms and we’ll give one of them over completely to your library. There will be a section for histories and one for novels and one for science books for you to read to me.”

“We’ll put a telescope in the corner of the library by a south facing window,” said Aziraphale. “And we can throw up the sash and look out at the stars whenever we like.” 

“If it's cold,” said Crowley, “We’ll simply sit on the carpet with blankets wrapped around us, and we’ll take turns looking through the eyepiece. I’ll show you the moons of Jupiter. And then, when we’re done, we’ll close the window and start a fire and make love on the carpet right in front of it.”

“Just the two of us,” said Aziraphale. “And my family will never know where I disappeared to.”

“Of course, angel,” said Crowley. “I’ll always protect you from them.”

***

Allowing his husband to leave the little room where they had just lain together for the last time before their five month separation was one of the most difficult things that Crowley had ever had to do in his life to date. That was why it was taking him so long. Aziraphale had just checked his watch and realized that they'd already run ten minutes past their planned time. He was going to have to run to make it to where his carriage was going to meet him outside of a library three streets over. And yet neither of them was letting go. 

They were both fully dressed, and they were standing up, but they were wrapped around each other. Crowley was trying to inhale the scent of his husband's hair, and Aziraphale had his nose buried in Crowley's neck. Crowley had a hand splayed on the back of Aziraphale's head and another between his shoulder blades and he was using them to press Aziraphale close. It was unfair, because he'd never allow such a controlling thing to be done to him, but, at the moment, he didn't care. He just wanted to make it impossible for his husband to break away before he was ready. Because if the separation came when he was unprepared, he would surely start crying and never stop. 

The secret to surviving the next few minutes would be being prepared for each step. Crowley felt his husband tense slightly under his hands, and so he inhaled and gritted his teeth and slowly let go, dragging his hands to Aziraphale's shoulders and then down his arms so that they were now holding hands, tightly. Their waists were still pressed together, and their heads were still resting together, but they were now slightly more separated. Crowley took another breath and held it and Aziraphale lifted his head so that they were looking into each other's eyes. 

"I'll write," Aziraphale said. "As soon as I reach my sister's house, and whenever I'm staying somewhere safe. I know you won't always be able to get someone to draft a reply in time for it to reach me, but I'll always keep writing. I promise."

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale squeezed both of his hands, and they both stepped backwards, though they were still holding hands.

"I'll save every penny that I earn above what I need to keep myself," said Crowley. "I'll wear my ring every single moment of every day. I'll think of you all the time."

"December," said Aziraphale. "It will be here before we know it, and when we're together again, it will feel like no time has passed at all."

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale was squeezing his hands so hard that the knuckles were rubbing together painfully, but he found that he needed the pain at the moment. Abruptly, the pain disappeared and Aziraphale was stepping away. He gave a tiny little angelic smile, and then he slipped silently through the door and left Crowley alone in the little attic room.

***

He was already fifteen minutes late to leave to meet his carriage, but Aziraphale bent over the desk in the butler’s office and reread the list of addresses and dates that Mr. Waxdall had written down in his careful hand.

“No,” said Aziraphale, “It’s from the fourth to the twelfth that I’ll be travelling between Essex and Lincolnshire.”

“Yes, sir,” said the old butler. “I’ll correct it from the third to the fourth.” He did, and Aziraphale read the list over again one last time to be absolutely sure. He’d left Crowley a bunch of pre-addressed sheets of paper, all with the relevant dates written on them, to make it easier, and so he could write without any help, if needed. But it never hurt to have a back up plan. 

“And if I receive a piece of my old blue hair ribbon,” said Aziraphale, “I’ll know it’s an emergency, and I’ll come back right away. I’ll first look for him here at this house, and then at his new employer. If for any reason he had to flee the city, we would meet at our old field near to my house in Oxfordshire. He knows where it is.”

“I hardly think things will come to that, young sir,” said Mr. Waxdall. 

“Please do look out for him while I’m gone,” said Aziraphale. “And try to keep him away from that dangerous molly house.”

The old man pressed his lips together tightly. “Well, sir,” he said at last. “I hope you have a wonderful summer. Enjoy your travels.”

***

“So,” said Uncle Gabriel, “You thought you’d just enjoy your travels and somehow your family would never find out what you did in London?”

“Sir,” said Aziraphale, “I, uh . . .”

“Shut your mouth,” said Gabriel. “You’ll just embarrass yourself.” 

Gabriel had indulged a bit too much in London, and now he was confined to bed with gout. But this didn’t prevent him from having power over Aziraphale: The way the rooms were set up, Aziraphale had to pass through his uncle’s enormous bedroom room to get to his own. The builder’s original intention, no doubt, had been for the smaller room to belong to a valet. But Uncle Gabriel had found his own purpose in the layout of his rooms, and he used it to keep a close eye on his heir’s comings and goings. Right now he was lying in his bed in a nest of pillows, with his bad foot elevated, and an angry scowl on his face. Aziraphale was standing at the foot of the bed with his head bowed. 

“You’re not departing today, that’s for certain,” said Gabriel. “And you shall not leave until I have an exact account of every item that you sold and what you spent that money on.”

***

_My Dearest Constance,_

_Today was my nineteenth birthday. Imagine that I only barely knew you on my last birthday and now you are knit unto my very soul. Last Sunday, the minister read the story of David and Jonathan at church and I could think of nothing but you. You are my David, the ruddy-haired one who was sent to me by God to be my companion, and I love you as completely as Jonathan loved David. Everything that is mine, will be yours too. On the day when we two can finally share a single home, my life will be completely happy. You are my greatest joy. Until we are reunited, I merely pass the time with what lesser pleasures my hosts choose to share with me._

_It is with great sadness that I must report to you that my allowance has been cut to zero. For at least the next year, I will have to ask my uncle to directly fund each individual expense. He’s going to continue to pay for my club membership and my clothes and theatre tickets and so on, but it’s going to be very hard for me to sneak money away to put towards our future. My uncle seems to think I have a problem with gambling. I’ve not disabused him of the notion, because my cousin Michael is arguing that I’ve sold all my jewelry for money to spend on prostitutes. Fortunately for me, my uncle refuses to believe that any man could spend over two hundred pounds on prostitutes in only seven weeks. Michael is making insinuations that these imaginary prostitutes must be of a particularly degenerate kind, hence the high price. If any more jewelry disappears, I will not be allowed to return to London._

_I’m not going to give up; I’m sure that we will find a way. No obstacle can stand for long against the power of a love such as ours._

_I’ve reached my sister’s house at last, and I will continue this letter later in the evening. Until then, I will think of you constantly._

When Aziraphale's carriage pulled up at his sister's little country cottage, he folded up the letter to Crowley that he had been working on. He had no fears of his correspondence being tampered with while he was here, so he simply lifted the tray of his portable lap desk and slipped the piece of paper into the compartment underneath. Then he put his pen away, locked all the drawers, and folded the wedge shaped desk so that it became a rectangular box with a handle. He carried his lap desk with him as he hastened to greet his favourite sister and her ever-growing family. 

After the rambunctious children were put to bed, Aziraphale enjoyed a quiet supper with his sister Ariel, her husband, and her mother-in-law. Aziraphale had five other older sisters and so there was quite a bit of gossip to catch up on. 

"I can't tell you how relieved we all were when we found that you were to inherit Empyrean Hall," said Ariel. "The old Earl is a tight-fisted monster. He was cruel to our late father and our oldest sisters hate him completely. He's determined to let them languish in poverty because of some offense they gave him when they were little more than girls. But I know that when you finally succeed him you'll do what's right."

Aziraphale felt a stitch in his gut that might have had something to do with guilt. 

He knew that if it weren't for his oldest two sisters, who were both spinsters above the age of forty, the Fell estate never would even have known of his existence. They were the ones who had persuaded the family to scrape the money together to hire a lawyer and press the claim that had gained Aziraphale his place at Empyrean Hall. Before their intercession, Aziraphale hadn't known much of his own lineage beyond the fact that he had been born months after his father's death, a final comfort to his widowed mother. Since the stepfather he had had from age seven onward had treated him reasonably kindly, Aziraphale had never had any motivation to learn of the first father whose entire contribution to his life had been completed before he drew breath. 

After his sister Ariel turned the conversation to lighter topics, Aziraphale assuaged his conscience by persuading himself that his eldest sisters had had their own selfish reasons in pressing his claim to Empyrean Hall and that he had only been seventeen years old when all the legal maneuvering had started. Even now, he still wasn’t of legal age, and wouldn’t be for another two years. His situation had been foisted upon him. And so he was under no obligation other than to take what he wanted from the situation and escape as soon as he was able. At any rate, he was a married man, though few people knew it, and therefore his highest duty was to his spouse. No married man was expected to put his sisters' welfare ahead of that of his lawful wife. God had created Aziraphale to love men, and he had married one, as best he possibly could under the law of the land he lived in. Conscience clearly dictated that the same ethical principles applied to his marriage as to any other. 

After his youngest sister’s family went to bed, Aziraphale pulled out his quill and continued with his letter to his husband. He wrote a few paragraphs about his travels and, finally, he added his thoughts from the day:

 _I have had two fathers, whereas many other men have one._ _But both are equally dead. I feel that my ties to them and to the familial obligations they bequeathed upon me are so much smaller to me than the affection I feel for you, my Dearest. Even when I am with my favourite sister, I think only of you. I do believe that we were made one flesh that day in the temple. Our distant ancestors who lived before Christ didn't have church weddings, and yet they were married in the eyes of God. I have faith that it is so for you and I. I will always give you the place of honour in my life, as I would have done for a wife if nature's God had constituted me to be able to honestly take one._

_I will be at this address until 23 July, but I will not wait for your reply before I write again._

_All my love._

_Yours Alone, Till Death_

_A_

_***_

"Thank you," said Crowley to the Queen Mother. He had felt a little awkward about asking her to read for him, but this was his very first correspondence from his husband, and she had insisted on reading it right away, even though the first of the girls would be arriving at the supper club within the hour and she was only half dressed. 

"I’m afraid I only have time to read it once through, my dear," said the Queen Mother. "And we'll have to wait to write the reply until--"

And here, the Queen Mother was cut off. The door of her bedroom was thrown open and then shut again and Nan, the younger of her two adult daughters, was leaning against it wild eyed and panting.

"Oh Father! Thank the Lord you haven't got any makeup on yet. The magistrate is here. He wants to talk to you. Joe is stalling him, but you need to come down as soon as possible."

The Queen Mother was perfectly calm. She let her daughter tear open the laces of her stays and pull them off, then she said: "Constance can help me dress. You must secure the parlour and then double-check the upper floor before you return to the kitchen. Let no one in by the rear door except for the duke, Lady Windward, and Lord Nifty. They can all be trusted to keep their heads. I'll send Constance down to the mouth of the alley to warn the others away."

Crowley was terrified, but the Queen Mother's self-assurance was ironclad. She let him pull her skirts and underlayers away and help him into men's clothing while he spoke slowly and clearly. 

"If you should chance to see the magistrate, you are Anthony, my new man of all work. My name is Richard Chancy. Say nothing if at all possible. What's my name?"

"Richard Chancy, sir."

"Good," he said. "Put your wig in this bag and then put it in the chest with my things. Wipe the wig powder off your face. When we leave this room you are to go upstairs, take off your livery and get into your regular clothes. Then go to the mouth of the alley and tell the girls that there's a fever in the household. Stay there until the bells toll ten o'clock. Then go home."

"But what about you?"

"This will all be over within the hour. Even if you were to return after ten, the magistrate would be long gone." 

As he was speaking, Richard Chancy was rapidly dressing himself. He accepted Crowley's help with his cuffs and his boots, which sped things along, and then he strode out the door of his bedroom with Crowley in his wake. Crowley rushed upstairs to change clothes, lock his costume into a crate of women's garments, and rush down the back stairs. As he reached the kitchen, Nan's husband Joe came through the door between the kitchen and the first floor pub and Crowley heard Richard Chancy's baritone voice carrying over the noise of the pub crowd.

"Sorry about making you wait, John. I was deep in my accounting. What can I do for you this evening?"

***

Richard Chancy, the Queen Mother, had been absolutely right. By the time Crowley was returned from his post at the mouth of the alley, there was no sign of the magistrate. The woman working in the kitchen, Chancy’s daughter-in-law, seemed surprised to see him back. She pulled on a dirty string that was hanging between the rafters behind two bunches of onions. A half-minute later, Nan, Chancy’s younger daughter, came down the back stairs, looking quite serious. When she saw Crowley, her expression changed to frank annoyance. 

"Is Her Majesty all right?", said Crowley. Seeing her face, he started to backpedal towards the door. "I'm sorry. I'll go home. I just wanted to check."

"Hmmph," she said. "Stay here." And she went up the stairs. She returned to the kitchen two minutes later, ladled a dollop of thickening stew into a bowl and handed it to Crowley. "Come on up," she said. 

The group he joined at the table was most decidedly not the usual supper club. Some of the faces were the same, and the location of the lamplit meal was the long table where the Queen Mother's glorious banquets were normally held, but the mood of the small group was the exact opposite of celebratory. Richard Chancy's daughters, Nan and Winnie, were eating stew and talking quietly with the few members of the supper club who had been allowed to be in the building tonight. Chancy's son, his daughter-in-law and his two sons-in-law were all downstairs running the kitchen and the pub and guarding the front door. 

All of the people at the table were dressed in the ordinary costume of their sex. The only hint of extravagance or femininity about any of the members of the supper club was that they all still called each other by the assumed names that Crowley knew them by. The Queen Mother was the only exception to this rule. She was being addressed by three different names and two pronouns and was responding to them all equally. 

"Are you sure, Father?", Nan was saying. 

"Magistrate had nothing specific," replied Richard Chancy. "An anonymous tip came to him. Just about me, not even the club. He said he didn't believe it, but he came to tell me personally as a courtesy."

"Doesn't want anything to happen to his precious cockfighting night," said Winnie, the elder daughter. She crossed her arms. 

"What were his exact words, Richard?", said Paul Waxdall, the sometimes duke. He was sitting to the right of the Queen Mother, his place of honour clearly uncontested by any at the table.

"The magistrate agrees that a man such as myself, a widower with a good profitable business, will attract all sorts of ridiculous gossip when he refuses to entertain the idea of remarrying. He agrees with me that to take a new wife at my age would be selfish as it would steal the inheritance from my daughters and son. He is shocked that anyone would try to sully my good name by suggesting that I had any other reason for remaining unmarried.”

There were serious nods all around. 

“I think,” said Paul Waxdall, “That despite what we’ve been hearing about the coming summer,” and here he nodded at Crowley and at Lady Windward, “We should expect all of our operations to be untouched, as long as we continue to be circumspect and we make an effort to get along with all of our long-time friends." 

"Who was it, ma'am?", asked Windward. "Who gave the tip?"

"Paul and I have an idea of who it was,” said Chancy. “The son of someone I do business with. I had a minor disagreement with his father last week." Both of Richard Chancy's daughters looked angry. "Don't worry," he told them, "I'll see this doesn't happen again." His tone of voice made it very clear that he didn’t blame himself for the breach and that the person he did blame was going to regret his recent choices very, very deeply. 

Crowley blinked. That was the only outward sign he dared give that he understood the subtext of the conversation that had just happened in front of him. They were criminals. They were mostly a very close family that happened to be headed by a man who was in love with another man, but, also, they were criminals. Not just criminals in the way of providing a safe house for men to put on dresses and have games in the cock loft, but also in other ways. And they'd just let Crowley in to share a supper and a frank conversation with them. Was it a test? And what exactly would happen to the man who had tried to set the law on Queen Mother Richard Chancy? 

Crowley didn't want to know. And yet . . . 

That evening, after supper concluded, Richard Chancy invited Crowley into the parlour with him. This was the very room where the ladies of the supper club went to have a bit of horizontal refreshment after supper. It was a large room with heavy drapes over the windows, a scattering of much abused chaises and some small tables. There was an old portrait on the wall of some major in the British royal army. The room had a claustrophobic feel. A complex odor hung in the air. Crowley's nose could pick out notes of tobacco, chicken droppings, brine, sawdust, and sex. 

Richard Chancy gestured towards a pair of armchairs. Crowley sat down in one of them and watched his host unlock the front of a cabinet and pull out a dark bottle with no label on it. He poured a generous measure of some kind of hard liquor into two tumblers and handed one to Crowley. 

"Well, Constance," he said, affecting the vocal qualities of the Queen Mother. "You seem to have recovered completely from the shock of tonight's little adventure."

Crowley nodded. "Yes. Your Majesty is kind to notice," he said. He took a sip. The drink was strong rum. It burned his throat. 

"You kept your head," said the Queen Mother. "I was impressed by that. Most of the girls wouldn't have been as sensible as you were."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"You've done well with your work here at the supper club. Very punctual. Very professional. Never put your nose where it doesn't belong. You've never so much as peeked into this parlour."

"I'm married, Ma'am."

"And so very faithful to the one you love," said the Queen Mother. "You can see that my family is the same way. Faithful to each other. And you can see the hard work that we all do to provide for each other and protect each other." 

Crowley was a fast thinker, and so it only took him one minute to recapitulate the entire thought process that he imagined the Queen Mother had had, once upon a time. Sodomy was one of the most serious and worst punished crimes. If a man was engaged in it, or in protecting sodomites, he was already on the wrong side of the law. At that point, he might as well get his fingers into a few other pies. It would hardly increase the danger to him and he could live a life of greater ease. Official corruption being as endemic it was, participating in certain lines of criminal activity might even offer some protection from the sodomy laws. It made sense for Richard Chancy and his family. And, perhaps, it would make sense for Anthony Crowley. 

Crowley had been working ten and twelve hour days for three months at the good honest driving job the duke had gotten for him, and he had only cleared four pounds in savings in all that time. At that rate, he'd never earn enough to escape to a new life with Aziraphale. However, Crowley had a very strong feeling that his wages were about to rise.

"Well, Constance, what would you say to carrying a few messages around the city for me, in the course of your daily rounds?"

"I'd be honoured, Ma'am."


	17. Family Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Aziraphale tries to convince Crowley to let him take Adam into service at Empyrean Hall.
> 
> In the past, Crowley and Aziraphale find hidden rooms all over London to meet in during their second year of marriage. Crowley is cagey about how he knows about all of these places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief mention of public executions and a suicide. Misogyny.

June 1826, an Inn in Tadfield 

“NO,” said Crowley. “I’m sure that’s a word you aren’t used to hearing anymore. But he is my son, and that is my final word.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” said Aziraphale. “Just because you had bad luck in service, doesn’t mean that it isn’t generally an excellent profession. If he starts as a hall boy at Empyrean Hall this year, then there’s no telling how high he could rise. Think of it Crowley, your son could become a butler or a steward. He’s very educated for his age already. There’s absolutely nothing stopping him from reaching the highest levels.”

Those last two sentences incensed Crowley instantly. How dare Aziraphale say such things? Anytime he wanted to dismiss Crowley’s opinions, he brought up Crowley’s lower education level. And it didn’t matter that Crowley had been working on learning Greek for the last eight years, and that one of his friends at the supper club had helped him to improve his English reading. He still wasn’t as fluent as a gentleman, and so he was, by definition, ignorant. If it weren’t for the fact that this was his son they were discussing, Crowley would have stormed out of the room and let Aziraphale enjoy a cold lonely bed while he himself spent a quiet night in the hayloft. But this wasn’t a battle he could back down from. Adam’s happiness was at stake. 

“And has it ever occurred to you,” said Crowley, “That I understand precisely what a life in service is like? That perhaps I know a bit more about it than you do? That I understand my son’s character and what will make him happy, and that, perhaps, I want more for his life than for him to fetch and carry for his so called ‘betters’?”

“Fetch and carry?”, said Aziraphale. And he raised his eyebrows in an incredibly condescending way. “That’s hardly the goal, here,” he said. “You’re being unreasonable. Your own experiences have given you a prejudice against life in service. I’m offering to personally oversee your son’s career. To give him the best possible start in life." He rolled his eyes in what seemed to Crowley to be a prissy and condescending way. "I don’t actually understand what you want for Adam," he said. "Surely you didn’t expect me to leave him to languish on a poultry farm? What kind of life would that be?”

“His OWN life, Aziraphale, his own.” Crowley paced the tiny room, making little explosive popping noises with his lips every time a wall or piece of furniture got in his way. Which was about every other second. “Why does it offend you so much,” he said. “When other people are free to live their own lives? Why are you only comfortable when every other person is under your control?”

“Adam is a child,” said Aziraphale. “By definition, he must be under someone’s control. And it’s far better that that person is someone who cares about him. Which is why I’m proposing that he come to Empyrean Hall with me.”

“If we are still going to continue to pretend that you actually take my feelings into account,” said Crowley, “Then you will let my son live his own life, according to his own wishes. Because that is what I want.”

“So I’ve paid for five years of schooling so that Adam can grow up to collect eggs and shovel bird droppings?”

“Are you implying that I tricked you?”, said Crowley. “Or are you saying he’s not worth the money?”

“Clearly there’s no talking to you,” said Aziraphale. “We must do as you wish, of course. But I want you to know that I find your accusation that I don’t value Adam extremely offensive. I don’t deserve to be abused when I’m merely trying to act like a responsible parent would.”

“Now you’re accusing me of being irresponsible!”

“I’ve said no such thing,” replied Aziraphale. “Perhaps it is your own conscience that is accusing you.” 

  
  


***

  
  


September 1813, An Estate in Cheshire

  
  


It was breakfast time at the Watson family’s estate. Nineteen-year-old Aziraphale was sitting around the table with the members of that household and his own family: Uncle Gabriel, Cousin Michael, Cousin Uriel, and the other unmarried female cousins. A half dozen relatives of the Watson family were there as well, including Lucien Morningstar and his father, the marquess. 

The sideboard was piled high with delicious foods for the two dozen breakfasters. There were eggs with buttery sauces, devilled kidneys, stewed fruits, hot chocolate, and cakes. But neither Aziraphale nor Michael nor Uriel nor any of the unmarried female cousins of the Fell household were eating these rich foods: they were having sliced fruit, dry toast, and porridge. The polite fiction was that these were the Fell family’s preferred breakfast foods, but the truth was if they didn’t eat exactly as he did, Uncle Gabriel would fall off his diet again and his gout would return. Effectively, no one in the family was allowed to enjoy any foods that were not on Uncle Gabriel’s diet. At least, not in his presence. 

Eventually, Uriel and all the other young women excused themselves, ostensibly to get ready for riding, but Aziraphale knew that they would have a second breakfast of cakes and cocoa brought up to their rooms. He and Michael didn’t have the excuse of their gender, so they distracted themselves from their unsatisfying breakfast by reading the papers. Eventually the other men finished enjoying their cream sauces and sugar syrups and everyone settled in to drink tea, pass newspapers back and forth, and have a lazy conversation about the news of the day. 

As he read his paper, young Mr. Watson made a tsking noise and leaned over to show Lucien Morningstar an article. Morningstar sniffed out his contempt but read the article avidly before passing it on. The newspaper went from hand to hand until it was passed to Aziraphale, who held it up in front of his face so that no one could see him blanch. 

“Three mollyhouses in one night is quite a coup,” said Watson. “This is the fruit of greater cooperation among the constables in the city. We may yet see London cleared of those infamous creatures.”

Aziraphale read in horrified silence. They hanged seven men the morning after the raid. And pilloried three dozen more. Not even time for a real trial. No time to contact friends or defenders. Two men died in the pillory and one man who had escaped the raid slit his own throat at the foot of the gallows. The reporter hadn’t seen fit to print the suicide’s last words, but he expended a great deal of ink to describe the poor man’s vocal qualities. 

“It will hardly make a difference,” said Uncle Gabriel. “They’re like rats. The city just breeds them.”

“Well they don’t breed themselves,” said Lucien Morningstar. “Not for lack of trying, I’m sure.” 

Everyone shared a hearty laugh, except for Aziraphale who was trying to remember exactly which neighbourhood Crowley’s molly house was located in. He was sure that if he recalled their conversations he could gather enough clues. But his mind was spinning and it utterly refused to yield up the information. 

A servant rushed into the breakfast room with a letter. For a moment Aziraphale imagined that it contained a scrap of blue ribbon, a last message to tell him that Crowley had thought of him in his final moments. But the letter was handed to Uncle Gabriel, who accepted it with stiff and slightly swollen fingers. 

“Get your nose out of that paper, young man, and give your old uncle some assistance,” said Gabriel. 

Aziraphale obeyed. He opened the letter for his uncle. He got himself through the rest of the morning by mechanically doing everything his uncle told him to do while his mind whirled. He had half a thought to set out for London but he didn’t know what he could do once he got there. A well dressed stranger banging on the door at a stable and begging to know whether a particular driver was well would be thought a madman. And if Crowley was trapped in a gaol or a workhouse, how could Aziraphale even hope to find him without exposing their relationship? Perhaps he could go to London and hire a man to make the search. There were a few personal items he might be able to sell to raise the money. But what excuse could he give for suddenly leaving the hunting holiday? And how many days before he reached London by stagecoach? And what if he was wrong? Then his uncle would discover that he’d sold more items and ban him from London, and it would all have been for nothing.

Lucien Morningstar was no comfort whatsoever. “Why are you moping over prostitutes?”, he asked the next morning, as the two of them stood around at the edge of a wood waiting for pheasants that neither of them particularly cared about one way or the other. While the other hunters were busy taking their shots, Morningstar thumped him on the back of the head and hissed in his ear: “There are ten thousand nancy-boys in the city, your common groom is fine, now act like a man.” 

Aziraphale didn’t dare write a letter to Crowley while he was at the Watsons’ estate. It would be weeks before he parted ways with his cousins and uncle to stay at a house that was friendly to him. By that time, he’d lost enough weight that his new host was concerned for his health and suggested sending for a doctor. When a letter finally arrived from London, Aziraphale tore it open, nearly ripping it in half in his anxiety. 

_Dear Mr. Fell,_

_Your letter dated 25 August was received with great joy. The recipient was glad to hear that your travels have been enjoyable and is eager to hear more of your adventures, particularly with respect to the shooting parties. She expects a full accounting of how you handled your weapon during your travels. She remains in good health and good spirits and looks forward to sharing more news when next you meet._

_Yours,_

_On behalf of Miss C., her Mother._

The date of the letter was two days after the raid. 

  
  


***

  
  


January 1814, London

The little room was barely wider than the narrow bed that was its only furniture. And Aziraphale had been so certain that the bed had vermin that he'd refused to remove most of his clothing and so their encounter had been an awful lot like those they used to have back when they had been sneaking around the estate. 

"You could have found someplace a little bit more decent," said Aziraphale, as he tidied himself up with a handkerchief wetted with saliva. 

"Priorities, angel," said Crowley. "This house of accommodation is very safe. And we can't afford to splurge every time. We'll have our own domicile within a year and all this sneaking around will be just a distant memory."

"I think I've been bitten by something," replied Aziraphale. 

"Naw," said Crowley. " 'S all in your imagination." 

***

February 1814, London

"This is a nice room," said Crowley, looking happily around a well swept and empty little attic room that nevertheless smelled very strongly of tea. The only light in the room was from a pair of candlesticks set in a corner, and the highest part of the sloped ceiling was only as tall as his waist. "It was worth the trouble to get here I think."

"I'm not sure I like climbing a ladder up a dark narrow tunnel," said Aziraphale. ”I scraped my shoulders on the way up.” 

"Mmmmmmm," said Crowley. “S’cause they’re wider than you expect them to be.” They were lying on a thin rag-stuffed mattress on the floor. His head was pillowed on Aziraphale's still broadening chest. He traced his fingers over his young husband’s shoulder bones. "When I saw you a few months ago, the first thing I thought was how much I was going to love these."

"I'm not the same man you married fourteen months ago.”

"No," said Crowley. "You're even more handsome. Who knew it was possible?"

"Flatterer." Aziraphale glanced over at the pocket watch he had propped open on the wooden floor beside the mattress. "If we need to vacate this room no later than three, then we should get dressed," he said. "How much money should I leave you for the room?"

"This room is free," said Crowley. 

"Free?"

"Gyyyyyhhhh, special favour from the Queen Mother.”

“Why?”

“She likes us, wants to see us happy."

Aziraphale took a deep breath of the stale and intensely fragrant air. He'd been putting off this little confrontation for weeks, but now was as good a time as ever. 

"I know they're your friends," said Aziraphale, "And they are very kind to you. I'm very grateful to the duke for helping us find each other again. But I still think it's really risky for you to spend so much of your time with these men. Don't you have friends at the stables?"

"Not friends that I can have read your letters."

"I can sign with a female name," said Aziraphale. "And choose my words carefully."

"No," said Crowley. "If I can't have your honest thoughts while you're gone, I'll go mad."

"But aren't these particular friends a bit . . . dodgy?"

"All men like us are a bit dodgy, angel. The law won't let us exist in peace. And if it weren't for my dodgy friends I wouldn't know about all these great low-priced private rooms for rent. You don't want to go back to that hourly lodging house with the vermin do you?"

"Well no, but--"

"Good," said Crowley. "It's settled, then. I'll meet you next Tuesday afternoon at one pm at the second alternative rendezvous site."

***

March 1814, London

“What would you say, angel,” said Crowley, “To disappearing into London this June just before your family leaves? You could take the last of everything you own, and we could get a little room somewhere in the city. There’s a place I know where we two would be welcome. They even do the laundry and everything.”

Aziraphale looked skeptical. “A molly house in the East End?”

“House of accomodation,” said Crowley. “But, yes, close to there. It would just be temporary, just a place to lay low. After your family leaves, you could get a job in the city and we could move to better quarters. I’m sure an educated man like you--”

“Could get a job where I’d be spotted by someone who knows my family,” said Aziraphale. “You can’t imagine that they wouldn’t go looking for me if I went missing. And if they found us living together, that would be the end of you.”

“It’s a big city, angel,” said Crowley. “They won’t find us.”

“Another year,” said Aziraphale. “If I can just get my allowance back, then we’ll be in a much better position. And we agreed to the countryside. I don’t want to live in a slum.”

“But we won’t,” said Crowley. “Just because a place isn’t located off Hyde Park doesn’t mean it’s a slum. There’s a middle.”

“Darling,” said Aziraphale, “Right now you sleep in a hayloft because you can’t afford to rent a room of your own.”

“Only because I’m saving up for us,” said Crowley. 

“I’m impatient too,” said Aziraphale. “But there’s no use in trying to move too fast. We get one shot at starting a life together. Let’s do it right.” 

That brief and serious conversation was an exceptional event in their second year together in London. Crowley and Aziraphale got by only seeing each other once weekly, their entire marriage confined to three-hour encounters in ever-changing locations and, when they could manage it, on varying days of the week. Despite, or perhaps because of, the difficulties of managing a relatively new relationship under such pressure, they spent most of their limited time in love-making. They didn’t discuss things as much as they had the year before, because they had run out of topics on which they could have a spirited debate. All their serious conversations these days ended either in angry silence or explosions. So they mutually decided to avoid them as much as possible. 

This made for a reasonably happy marriage. Aziraphale was nineteen years old and he was all but insatiable. He could be made to spill three times in a single encounter and Crowley was sure that if they had more than three hours, Aziraphale would want more. And Crowley was happy to serve. Mostly. 

Crowley never mentioned it, because he didn't want to start another useless fight, but the only thing that slightly bothered him about how they spent their time was the constant evidence that his husband was regularly watching other men at their deeds of pleasure. Aziraphale was ardent in his admiration of Crowley, but there were odd little moments of implicit comparison to other men's bodies. One day, upon seeing Crowley at his full, Aziraphale remarked: "I like your prick best. In my opinion there's a certain thickness that is simply too much for comfort." And then he matter-of-factly took his pleasure from the organ that he had just analyzed. Aziraphale was always interested in trying new activities and new positions, but he gave such exacting directions that Crowley had no doubt that he was trying to recreate something he had recently watched other men do. Crowley would be completely annoyed one moment, feeling like a servant who had to respond to endless demands, and then something would happen that would make him fall in love all over again. 

One of those beautiful moments happened in late March, when Crowley brought something to their tryst by special request. 

"I brought stable bandages," said Crowley. "Those ought to qualify as strong strips of cloth." He laid them out on the little metal-framed single bed that was the sole piece of furniture in this particular hidden room. 

"Perfect," said Aziraphale. His eyes gleamed. "I have an idea. I've noticed that you don't like me to touch you when you're pleasuring me with your mouth. I wondered if you'd be happier if my wrists were tied to the bed frame?"

It did turn out to be a very good idea, even if Aziraphale gave oddly specific directions as to how to tie the knots. Crowley had never felt so relaxed in performing the oral act. It was a sort of revelation for him how much more he liked it when the part of his mind that was normally on alert was allowed to simply relax. Aziraphale noticed his enjoyment too. He completely adapted to this new way of doing things, and was so cheerfully accommodating of being regularly tied up that Crowley felt vaguely unworthy. 

As the months went on, other issues emerged. There was a tension between Aziraphale's need to have irregular meeting times so as not to be detected by his family and Crowley's need to work a regular schedule at the stables. That tension grew and finally erupted into an enormous row in early May which, once started, spilled into a general fight about money, their future, and, yet again, whether Crowley should quit his molly house. In his frustration at his husband's hypocrisy and classist prejudice, Crowley accidentally told a truth that he hadn't been prepared to share:

"Three quarters of everything I save towards our future comes from the little jobs the Queen Mother gives me!"

"What are you talking about?", said Aziraphale. "What sort of jobs do you do for her?" 

"Eyah, uh, deliveries and stuff," said Crowley. And then he completely changed the topic with just two cleverly crafted sentences: "My supper club is part of my work. Unlike you, I don't pay good money just so I can lie around tossing off while I watch other men fitting ends." Aziraphale obliged him by becoming instantly enraged. He pointed out that he absolutely needed to be a member of one gentlemen's club or another. Then he called Crowley a prude and a hypocrite. The charge of hypocrite was easy enough for Crowley to lob back; the fight that followed was epic enough that it seemed to completely erase any trace of the topic of what kind of jobs Crowley did for the Queen Mother. 

But Aziraphale was nothing if not tenacious. The next time they met, he started the conversation about the Queen Mother up again from where they had left off before the row. 

"What kinds of deliveries do you make, exactly?", he said. And within two more weeks of asking carefully worded questions and listening to the silences between Crowley's evasive answers, he finally came to an entirely correct conclusion as to the nature of those deliveries. 

"It's all too dangerous," he said. "I forbid you take part in smuggling." 

"You forbid me?" 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I'm your husband, and I'm forbidding you to engage in criminal activity."

The word 'forbid' rankled, but Crowley's body was still marinating in the aftereffects of a particularly pleasurable type of criminal activity and so he merely said: "Does that mean you won't be yielding your favours to me anymore?"

"What's that got to do with--"

"You've been a criminal since the first moment you let me unbutton your breeches. Are you planning to stop?"

"But that's different."

"No, it's not," said Crowley. "The laws, most of them, are just there to make some men rich and the rest of us criminals. The customs fees, the sodomy laws, they're equally ridiculous. Half of the people of London are technically criminals one way or another."

"Well," said Aziraphale. "As a matter of conscience, as well as for our own safety, we ought to respect the law wherever we can."

Crowley looked around the hidden room where they were staying for the afternoon. Unmarked crates were stacked from floor to ceiling along two walls. He was going to point out the irony, but it didn't seem worth it. 

***

A lot of things bothered nineteen-year-old Aziraphale about his marriage. There was the fact that he had to keep it secret and also the fact that he could only see his husband for a few hours a week. These were both real hardships. But they were hardships he had expected when he'd gotten married a year and a half ago. What he hadn't expected was how helpless he would feel all the time. His husband didn't listen to him. To be fair, Crowley was perfectly obliging when engaged in deeds of pleasure. But he refused to consider Aziraphale’s wishes in any other matter. 

"I might as well not say anything for all the difference it makes. He simply talks circles around me and then does exactly as he pleases." Aziraphale said this to the ceiling as he lay in a deep copper-lined tub in his London home. He was leaving London in only a month, and he had a feeling that as soon as he was gone, Crowley would just take on more smuggling work than ever. The problem was that Crowley was older than he, and had this ridiculous notion that he ought to be the one who did all the earning. Aziraphale disagreed but his case wasn't helped by the fact that his reinstated allowance had been set at one shilling a week. His Uncle Gabriel suspected that he was addicted to cards or dice, and so it was fair to reduce his allowance, but there was no doubt that the low figure was meant to humiliate him, as if he was a boy who only needed to buy sweets and marbles. Aziraphale couldn’t even afford to rent rooms for himself and his husband every week. And, with his uncle watching him so closely, he didn't dare sell off any more of his jewelry.

Aziraphale kicked at the water, making a splash that probably put an enormous puddle onto the floor of the bathroom. He couldn't bring himself to care. He was angry enough to want to throw water around the entire room like a child. He threw his head back against the side of the tub and yelled at the ceiling. 

"I'm not being unreasonable!", he shouted.

"Sir?", said a voice outside the door. And the door opened by a few inches. 

"Sorry, James!", said Aziraphale. "I don't need anything." When the door shut, he lay in the water and thought. He muttered his conclusion to the ceiling. "If only I could find a substantial way to contribute to our future," he said. "Then he might be willing to abide by my word." 

***

The parting in June of their second year of marriage was far more horrible than the previous one. They spent their last day together trying to plan for their separation, as if they could cram months’ worth of discussions into hours. Crowley talked endlessly about their secret bank account and how much money he hoped to add to it and when he expected them to have enough money to buy a cottage and start a life together. Aziraphale had written the addresses of all the places he would be staying during the next five months onto separate pieces of paper so that they could be folded up into envelopes. He was absolutely terrified that his husband's molly house would be raided or that he'd be apprehended in his smuggling activities and he dealt with his fear by carefully organizing all the pre-addressed pieces of paper into the correct order, according to the dates of his travels. 

"And then I'll be at the Watsons' estate again from the third of September to the twenty-first. My letters won't be safe from my family while I'm there, so if there's an emergency you'll need to send a coded message. Do you still have my old hair ribbon?"

Crowley opened up his coat and pulled out the envelope that still contained a lock of Aziraphale's hair tied with a light blue ribbon. He showed it to Aziraphale, then folded the lock of hair and the ribbon carefully away. Most men in Aziraphale's tier of society would have had the lock of hair made into jewelry or stowed away in a jeweled box, but Crowley had never been able to afford such a thing. He kept the lock of hair in the exact same crumpled envelope that Aziraphale had delivered it in, twenty months ago. Aziraphale's breath caught for a moment as the full measure of his husband's devotion struck him. 

But then the part of his mind that was protecting him from feeling the weight of the impending separation took over, and he went back to his anxious recitation of dates and locations. When he was done, Crowley took the little stack of pre-addressed papers and tucked them into the same pocket that had the lock of hair and the ribbon. 

Then Crowley took Aziraphale's hands into his own and looked him in the eye and made his own little speech. "I know that it frightens you to think about giving it to me, but I'd really like the address of your gentleman's club. I wouldn't use it lightly. Since you aren't in London, that means that if I needed to use it, you wouldn't be caught up in any raid that might happen."

Aziraphale looked into his husband's eyes, held firm to his moral convictions, and said: "No."

For the remainder of their time, on this last visit, they were both too upset about the fact that their time was almost over for them to do anything that English law might recognize as a crime. They tried, but Crowley's body wouldn't cooperate and Aziraphale didn't have the heart. So, with nothing left to do or say, they just took turns pacing the tiny room, asking each other about the time. When the last minutes had finally ticked away, they held each other very tightly in a wordless embrace. Aziraphale was the first to step away.

"See you in December," Crowley said. 

"When we’re together again,” said Aziraphale, “It will feel like no time at all has passed."

And then he disappeared through the door.

Crowley took a deep breath. Then he scooped up the coins that Aziraphale had left on the edge of the wash stand. He calculated the time they had spent together: two hours and twenty five minutes. It would be an even two and a half hours by the time he got downstairs to pay the sour faced mistress of this private house. Aziraphale had left him a shilling, but all in small coins to make it easier. They had prepaid most of the fee, but Crowley counted out four pennies for the balance of what was owed. That left him eight pence, which hardly made up for the time he'd lost by spending the afternoon here. He owed the stable a daily fee whether or not he earned any fares, and so these pennies would never make it to his bank account. It frustrated him that every hour spent together now pushed their future further away. 

As he walked down the tilted and twisty stairs in this stranger's house, Crowley reflected that, at least for the next five months, he could focus completely on saving for the future. That was the silver lining he would use to get himself through the separation. Crowley entered a kitchen that was crowded with children, paid the scowling woman standing in the midst of them, accepted a lit candle stub from a girl who was probably her daughter, and held it gingerly in his fingers as he ducked through a damp passageway in her foul basement. He emerged in the storeroom of a middle class tailor's establishment. He blew out the candle stub, shook the hot wax from his fingers, and paid the tailor a penny for the privilege of passing through. Then he tucked his wedding ring under his shirt, passed through a curtain into the front of the shop, stepped out into a busy street, and hurried off to his evening's work. 

***

  
  


Night work paid three times as much as daytime work. It was a fact. It was also a fact that a lot of deliveries arrived at villages just south of London at night and needed to be quickly and stealthily distributed to their final destinations at shops, taverns, and storerooms all over the city. Crowley was a great believer in accepting facts. Over the summer, he also learned to accept tea, gin, rum, tobacco, opium, and silk, and to pass them on to other people who were also happy to accept them. London was a very accepting sort of city, especially at night.

It was a few hours past midnight on a night in early August. Crowley was with the duke in the basement of a townhouse whose owners were not as well-heeled as they pretended to be and who were happy to rent out the use of their basement water pump while they weren’t in London so that their empty townhouse could help to fund their family’s enjoyment of the countryside. The men who were supposed to do tonight’s work had fallen to cholera, and so, with Crowley’s help, the duke was engaged in a rare bit of hands-on skullduggery. 

“She doesn’t want us to live in the city,” said Crowley, as he worked the pump. “Not safe enough for her. Her family, you know. They’ll try to track her down.”

“What about moving to the coast?”, asked the duke. “I could make some inquiries. There are some very isolated homes near quiet coves in the Southeast. I’m sure a person with your nighttime driving skills could find profitable work in the area.”

“ ‘S a thought,” said Crowley. “Have to bring her ‘round to the idea though.”

“Then I’ll hold off on my inquiries for now,” said the duke. He stirred a paddle in the giant cistern which was currently in use as a mixing tub for gin. Then he held a candle over the liquid and peered at a bunch of little numbered glass balls on the surface. At the edge of the tub, glass ball number 62 popped up to the surface. “Slow down that water Constance,” he said. “We’re nearly to 60 proof.” 

***

September 1814

Aziraphale's time in the countryside was proving to be a disaster. He got word that one of his sisters was ill and needed to see a doctor in the city. She sent a letter in which she begged him for money for the expense, and, in turn, Aziraphale had to beg his uncle for the money. Worse still, he had to return home to Empyrean Hall to do it.

"She didn't have the sense to marry well," said Gabriel, "And now she cries to us?"

"She's your niece," said Aziraphale. "And you are a Christian man."

"I have seventeen nieces and grand-nieces," replied Gabriel. "Three daughters, three sisters, four widowed aunts, a mad cousin, fifteen moderately sane cousins, and two great-aunts. And not a week goes by when one or another of them isn't asking me for money. The roof on the Dower House Cottage needs repair, or your great-aunt will get rain in her house this winter, but I'm going to have to put that repair off again, because of yet another feminine emergency."

"I'm sure it's inconvenient, sir, but--"

"Inconvenient doesn't begin to describe it. When you joined us here, you expanded the circle of women who think they can call upon Empyrean Hall to get them out of their messes."

"I know, sir."

"Before you marry," said Gabriel. "Count the girl's relatives and divide whatever amount she brings to the marriage by that number. If the number you get isn't at least a thousand pounds, don't marry her." 

“Uh,” said Aziraphale.

“Life is a battle, young man,” said the old earl. “A battle of wits against fortune hunting girls and lazy tenants and avaricious relatives and highwaymen.”

“Yes sir,” said Aziraphale. His uncle wasn’t making a lot of sense, but he’d had many a successful conversation with Gabriel by merely saying ‘Yes, sir’ until the old man ran out of steam. 

“You’d better stay here for the next few weeks,” said Uncle Gabriel. “My gout is acting up again, so I’m forced to send you out to collect the rents. I hope you’ll be a better steward of my money than you’ve been of your own.”

“Yes sir,” said Aziraphale, as his autumn travel plans disintegrated. 

“At least you survived the gauntlet of your second London season without committing to an engagement with a pretty young girl of small fortune. You may be a pudding brain but at least you’re not a fool for love.”

“I am a bit young for marriage, sir,” replied Aziraphale. The last thing he needed was for his uncle to start pushing women at him. 

“I should say so,” said Gabriel. “A man your age should never marry. You might pick someone poor or unsuitable just because of lust or foolish romantic notions. No. You should take your time to find an advantageous match. A young lady with a pleasant disposition and a strong financial position is well worth waiting for. You will have many more dependents than the average man of your rank. There’s no room in your life for sentimental errors of judgement.”

"Yes sir.”

"The lack of money will doom a marriage before it begins, young man. Whatever you do, don't marry for love."

“Yes, sir,” said Aziraphale.

Gabriel nodded at his desk. “Open the middle drawer,” he said. “Take out the box with my pistol. I can’t work the trigger anymore because of this blasted swelling in my fingers. So I’m going to give it to you. You will learn to use it. You’ll carry it on your person when you go out to collect the rents. They’ll think twice about robbing you if you’re armed. And carrying a weapon will teach you to be more vigilant. It’s a war out there, and you need to conduct yourself as a soldier of Empyrean Hall.”

“Yes, sir.” said Aziraphale. And, as his uncle rambled, he nodded soberly and repeated those same two words over and over again. After an interminable amount of time, Gabriel was satisfied and sent him away. 

Aziraphale dutifully carried his new pistol to his room. Then he walked through the halls and hid himself in a corner of Empyrean Hall’s enormous library, immersing himself in a thrilling novel about a madman seeking revenge upon an innocent man for his ancestor’s crimes. Eventually, the lurid tale filled his mind enough that the harassment from his uncle seemed of but little importance. He read until long past midnight then slipped out of the library and headed to his room with a candle in his hand. 

As he passed through what he thought was an empty sculpture gallery, a voice called to him in the darkness. It was Michael. 

“Dangerous world, isn’t it?”, said Michael. He was drawling, stretching out each syllable. “London in particular. Dangerous city. All manner of criminals, aren’t there? If you wander into the wrong streets. Perhaps when we return, you should carry your pistol there too.”

“I think I’ve adequately proved that I know my way around London,” said Aziraphale. He kept on walking past the busts on tall plinths that lined this hall, and he turned into the main atrium. Michael paced by his side. Aziraphale’s candle wasn’t strong enough to light the angels that were swirling around the edge of the dome and trumpeting in the spandrels forty feet overhead. All he could see was a yellow circle of light, and, at the edge of it, his cousin’s wolfish smile. He heard his own footsteps echoing as he walked over the stone floor towards his own wing of the building. But Michael’s footfalls were quieter, as if he was a giant cat. 

“Oddly, I agree with you,” said Michael. “I think you’ve learned to get around the city very well. You frequently went out alone and you seemed to return with your purposes, whatever they were, satisfied. But you didn’t often visit anyone that the family knows, and, this past year, your carriage dropped you off in some rather . . . degenerate . . . parts of the city.”

Aziraphale had been doing alright at faking nonchalance, but at the moment he realized that his own driver and footman were spies, he tripped on the edge of a carpet in the entry hall of Uncle Gabriel’s rooms. Michael made a tiny snort of triumph, and then he took a tiny step in front of Aziraphale, so that Aziraphale was forced to stop. Aziraphale drew in a quick breath, and, remembering that his face was visible in the candlelight, he did his best to make his expression very blank and neutral, but it was too late. 

Michael was practically purring as he whispered: “Our uncle may believe that you lost all that money at gambling last year,” he said. “But I know you’re not a gambler. A face like that can’t win at cards. So I asked myself: what other vice would my soft cousin spend his money on that he wouldn’t want the family to know about? What peculiar habit could only be satisfied by wandering around in low neighbourhoods? And how does he continue to support that habit if we aren’t giving him any money?” 

“You are raving,” said Aziraphale. 

“Time will tell,” said Michael. “Sleep well, Heir Apparent.” And he withdrew from the atrium and disappeared into the darkness of the hall. 

  
  
  



	18. Visions of the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale each make different clever and overly optimistic plans for their future together.

September 1814, Oxfordshire

Aziraphale was trapped at Empyrean Hall for three weeks while he collected the rents for his uncle. There was no one to confide in. Everything Aziraphale did or said in front of any servant at home could be relayed to his cousins or his aunt. Now that the driver and footman he had liked the most had turned on him, he knew that there was no one in the house who could be trusted. Crowley had said that the housekeeper, Mrs. Potts, had a very particular reason to be Aziraphale’s ally, but she was the one who had banished Crowley from Empyrean Hall in the first place, and so he hated her. 

Every afternoon, he went out in his carriage and collected money from farmers who were either obsequious or angry. Sometimes they tried to cheat him out of the full amount, and sometimes they had good reasons to need forbearance, and Aziraphale did his best to play Solomon, but, by the time he was done with his rounds each day, his shoulders were a solid rock of tension. Every afternoon at five, he skipped tea with his family and took a hot bath instead. 

But there was no avoiding supper and, with supper came the usual sly insults from his aunt and cousins. If Aziraphale rose to their bait, and uttered any words of anger or resentment, they’d talk about his transgression for weeks. But if he was silent for the whole meal, that was also a transgression. So he measured out his words carefully, never too few, and never too many.

Every night, after his aunt insulted him at supper, Aziraphale would go to his uncle’s room and stand at the foot of Gabriel’s bed and be berated for any rents that he hadn’t collected that day. He defended the tenants to the best of his ability. When the harassment was over, he took himself to his room. As soon as his servants were done dressing him for bed, he would lock his bedroom door, sit next to the hearth with his portable desk in his lap, and write a letter to Crowley, then burn it immediately. As the smoke went up the chimney, he imagined that his words might magically reach his husband. He didn’t dare write real letters to Crowley, for fear that his servants might intercept them. Except once. 

Raids on London molly houses weren’t happening this year, or, at least there was nothing more in the papers about them, but one day Aziraphale read the news that a barn had been discovered fifteen miles south of the city with one hundred and forty hogsheads of smuggled tobacco inside it. The owner of the barn was a woman, and she hadn’t been hanged because she claimed innocence, and the barn was sufficiently far from her house that it couldn’t be proved that she knew of its contents. However, the newspaper said that the investigation was “on-going” and that the network of smugglers was believed to be “extensive.” 

As he read the article, Aziraphale felt a stab of terror in his gut. He hadn’t been able to communicate with his husband in weeks. Crowley didn’t read the newspapers. How could he possibly know what danger was coming? So Aziraphale used his portable desk and wrote in the carriage in between stops all day, folding and locking it up at every stop and never letting his locked desk out of his sight, and then, because he couldn’t trust his own footman to post the letter, he got out of the carriage and posted it himself. 

  
  


***

September 1814, London

_My Dear Constance,_

_I received intelligence which made me extremely concerned for your welfare. I implore you to stay close to home, to keep to simple and safe routines, and to not hazard your life for any reason.There is no future that we might have which would make it worth it for you to take on unnecessary dangers._

The Duke flipped through the pages of the letter. His eyes darted back and forth impossibly quickly. He looked concerned and then confused, and then concerned again. Finally, he laid the letter down on the long empty table in the Queen Mother’s dining hall.

“Well?!”, said Crowley. 

“I’m not sure I understand what she is saying,” said the duke. “She’s very distressed, but she doesn’t say why and she never comes to a point of any sort. This is the first letter you’ve had in a month and it’s from Oxfordshire. Is it possible that her family has imprisoned her again?”

Crowley started pacing. “That’s why I need to get her away from them as fast as possible,” he said. “They’re making her mad. It’s been this way since the start. They torment her with their words. They never give her any peace. It’s always been a battle to patch her mind back together.”

The duke nodded. “The gentry can be very cruel to their youngest sons.”

“No,” said Crowley. In his agitation, he completely lost his supper club affectations. “He’s not the-- Eyeahhhhh! He’s the heir. Your actual heir. Title, lands, all of it goes to him when that old bastard finally dies, and still her deranged ladyship treats him like so much rubbish.”

The duke cocked his head. He blinked once. Then he quietly held up a single finger. When Crowley stopped speaking, he stepped out of the dining room and opened the door that led to the parlour. Through the open door, Crowley heard someone calling out to God. There was a moment of silence, then a round of applause. As the applause died down, the Queen Mother emerged from the parlor on the duke’s arm. She sat down on the bench right next to Crowley, rested her chin in the cradle of her hands and raised an eyebrow. 

“So,” she said. “Your wife is heir to a title?” 

Crowley explained it all. He couldn’t keep his emotions or his volume under control. Fortunately there was little chance of anyone in the next room overhearing him. They were making plenty of noise on their own. Crowley told the whole story, from his childhood to his injury to meeting Aziraphale all the way to the present moment. The two of them said nothing. They just exchanged significant glances and mouthed words at each other. When he finally stammered to a halt, the Queen Mother had only one thing to say. 

“Fetch the good whisky,” she said to her partner. “When those girls go home, we three are going to get lushy!”

After everyone else left the club, Crowley sat in an armchair in the Queen Mother’s bedroom, drunk for the second time in his life on expensive whisky. 

“Aziraphale Fell!”, Crowley said. “Zats his name. He’s the future Earl of Ambro--, Ambrosher--er --eyrrruh-- ah-- someplace.”

Duke Bottomly and the Queen Mother were lounging on their double bed and giggling like children as they sloppily poured out more whisky into their tumblers. “You had her serving at the table,” said the duke. “And she’s pounding an earl the whole time!” 

“ ‘S got to be worth something,” said the Queen Mother, “Providing a fuckloft for an earl! I ‘spect a dinner invitation from the manor.”

“I want a cottage on the estate!”, said the duke. He raised his glass in an unsteady way as if he was offering a toast while standing on the deck of a storm-tossed ship. “And a little pug dog to walk around the park with a ribbon ‘round his neck!” 

And then the Queen Mother sat up on the bed and looked Crowley square in the eye and said: “What the Hell is wrong with you, Constance? Your earl is never going to move to a smuggler’s den on the southeast coast.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Sixty miles northwest of London, in a great house that could have comfortably fit at least three hundred little seaside hovels inside of it, nineteen-year-old Aziraphale was lying in his deep tub, in front of the fireplace in his own bedroom at Empyrean Hall, trying to imagine that Crowley was standing just behind him, stripping off his clothes, about to slip into the hot water behind him and gather him into his arms. 

The way things should work, if it were a just world, would be that fixing his thoughts upon his beloved husband at the end of the day’s work would be a source of comfort for Aziraphale, but it was precisely the opposite. Almost as soon as he pictured Crowley in his mind’s eye, Aziraphale would remember that his husband’s life was in constant danger. And then his imagination would supply an endless series of scenarios in which Crowely’s lawbreaking was brought to light: Perhaps the stableman at the carriage house he worked for would notice that the horses were too tired for the work that they had been supposed to be doing. Perhaps Crowley would make an illicit delivery to a dark cellar and find a constable waiting for him. Or maybe the molly house where he still spent two nights a week would be raided and he'd be dragged off to the pillory or the gaol. 

The problem was that Crowley was taking these risks because of him. The smuggling was to save up money for their future. The molly house was because he was lonely and needed sympathetic company. 

As concerned as he was about the dangers the molly house presented, Aziraphale had a great deal of sympathy for Crowley’s desire to go there. After all, he deeply understood the constant tension of pretending to be someone he wasn't. He felt himself going nearly mad from the loneliness of spending month after month with no one to confide in. It was so important to be able to relax, to let the mask slip away, and just be completely comfortable with people who understood one’s true nature. 

Obviously, once they had a home together, then Crowley could be himself all the time and he wouldn't need a molly house. But where could they live? Crowley's latest plan, which had been communicated by a cryptic letter that Aziraphale had received just before coming back home to Empyrean Hall, seemed to be for them to live in a desolate place near the ocean on the southeast coast or perhaps along the shore in Essex. Aziraphale had had to read the letter six times before he finally divined that Crowley planned to earn a living by assisting smugglers. 

‘ _It would be a quiet life. I might take walks on the beach at night from time to time,_ ’ Crowley had written. _‘You would sleep right through it all. We would keep a few horses and carts that could be loaned to friends. We’d have a large barn for storage. I might even make a little extra money doing some driving myself._ ’ When he’d finally understood Crowley’s intentions, Aziraphale had thrown the letter into the fire.

“And then what?", he’d whispered to the curling cinders of the letter. "What else will you do for work? Do you even know how to earn a decent living without smuggling? Are you going to expect me to help haul barrels up the cliffs at night? Will you have a pistol to shoot at any lawmen that should find you? Is that the future you see for us?"

In truth, Crowley’s options for work were dreadfully constrained. If they were going to live together, they couldn’t stay in London, which was the only place where a coachman with a face like his could easily get a job. Obviously, no great house would hire someone who looked like him. Perhaps the two of them could go to another city, but without someone to recommend him for a job, the work Crowley could get would be cart work, and that wouldn’t pay well. So, sooner or later, he’d be back to the smuggling. And wherever they lived, they'd still have to be careful not to have their illegal personal connection suspected, and to never be found by the Fell family.

Aziraphale’s family could never let him live in peace because if he was ever legally found to have committed sodomy, then all of his property and titles would instantly revert to the crown, and all his family and heirs would lose everything. If he disappeared, Michael would try to hunt him down, because he couldn’t be sure that Aziraphale might not reappear upon Gabriel’s death and claim the Fell estate. And if Aziraphale inherited and subsequently got caught with a cock in his mouth, then it didn’t matter that Michael was next in line to inherit, or what the entail said. The entire Fell family fortune would be lost. Which was why Michael was obsessed with getting Aziraphale disinherited before Gabriel died. And all of this was why Crowley had concluded that the two of them needed to hide somewhere on the coast, in a small town where Michael would never find them and where virtually everyone was a criminal, so that no one would dare turn them in for sodomy, lest the whole town hang for smuggling. 

Since the day he’d received that letter from Crowley, Aziraphale had dutifully tried to picture himself hauling crates up a beach at night or trying to drive a cart full of contraband across the countryside. He didn't think he'd have the nerve. But what was the alternative? To sit at home on dark nights in a lonely house by the shore not knowing whether his husband would return?

Crowley was clever. There was no denying it. But, as he lay in his hot bath in his richly appointed bedroom, the nineteen-year-old heir to Empyrean Hall was absolutely determined to find a better plan than his husband’s. Aziraphale was a few years away from becoming an earl. It didn't seem possible that the best life that he could have with Crowley was as a criminal. It was unfair that he should have to choose between his husband and living a legal life. There had to be another way. 

Azriaphale started ruminating on the 'if onlys’: If only Crowley hadn't been branded a thief at Empyrean Hall, he could be brought back on as the stablemaster or as a valet. If only his uncle would let him move away for a few years. If only the estate wasn't tied up by a half-dozen interlocking legal documents that made it impossible to sell off any part of it without all manner of joint permissions between fathers and sons or a certain number of generations passing from when they were originally drawn up. 

Eventually, it occurred to Aziraphale that he had a bit more power than he’d realized. Perhaps the fact that if he was ever convicted of sodomy then all of his property would instantly revert to the crown was not such a fearsome thing after all. What it meant was that, once he was earl, all of his dependent relatives would suddenly have a vested interest in protecting him from the law. They could never turn him in. Once he inherited, all his problems were over. At that point, even the servants would have an interest in protecting him. 

Aziraphale sat in his deep bath until the water grew cold and then he sat in a wingback chair in front of his hearth and stared until the flames turned to embers. He thought about everything he knew and everything Crowley had ever told him. He thought about his family and he thought about his servants. When the embers died, he took himself to bed. But then he woke in the middle of the night with a second realization, nearly as profound as the first. He sat in his bed in the dark and his realization turned into the beginning of a plan. 

He alternated between pacing his bedroom and wrapping himself in a blanket in a chair until he was completely sure that he had thought everything through. He was still awake when the scullery maid came through to light the fire. Ten minutes later, a tea tray and a light breakfast appeared at his elbow, delivered by a concerned and apologetic housekeeper who happened to be the very person Aziraphale most wanted to see. 

"You should have rung," said Mrs. Potts. "Poor Mr. Fell. How long have you been awake and freezing in here, sir?"

The truth was that he hadn't lit a fire for himself in so long that it hadn't occurred to him to do so. But that truth was not as important as some other truths that needed to be spoken. 

"Can you shut the door, please, Mrs. Potts?", he said. "I'd like a private word."

She did as he asked, and then she stood in front of him with her hands clasped in front of her. She was in her fifties, had a bad knee, and had worked for the Fell family for almost twice as long as Aziraphale had been alive. But he was the one sitting in the wingback chair with his feet propped up on a cushioned stool.

"Do you remember Anthony Crowley, who used to serve in the house and then at the stables?", he said.

Her face assumed a careful neutrality, but he saw her eyes widen just a bit. 

"What exactly did you tell my uncle and aunt about why he left so suddenly?", said Aziraphale.

"Well, Mr. Fell," she said. "I thought it best for all concerned that I tell them very little."

"But Miss Device told me that he was accused of theft."

"Well," said Mrs. Potts. "She might have done." 

"But none of my family ever said a word about the theft in all these years," said Aziraphale. "Isn't that odd? A servant, a servant my Aunt Sandalphon hated, stole from the household and yet there was no gossip about it."

Now Potts was looking a bit confused and wary. But she only said. "Not very odd, sir, there was a lot to do with Lilias and Juliet both coming out in the same year. It all got lost in the shuffle."

"No," said Aziraphale. "I know my aunt. She'd never lose a chance to complain about a servant."

Mrs. Potts smirked a little. She was the person who was designated to receive all complaints about female members of the staff and Aunt Sandalphon was diligent in ensuring that no flaw in any work by any servant ever went unremarked upon. 

"If there had been even a suspicion of Anthony Crowley thieving,” said Aziraphale, “My aunt would have talked about it constantly. So I have to conclude that you didn't tell my Aunt Sandalphon and Uncle Gabriel that he stole from them."

"Well," she said. "I always liked Anthony, and I thought it fair that he should get a fresh start. I told your aunt and uncle that he had had a family emergency. I was able to give him nearly all the money he would have been owed from his years of service. We gave him an entire afternoon to pack, and he took a stagecoach. I'm sorry if you've been worrying about him all these years. He always was clever and hard working. I'm sure Anthony Crowley has done well for himself, just as you have."

"You told him that the household would be told he was a thief," said Aziraphale. "You made him think his life would be in danger if he came anywhere near this house."

The housekeeper's jaw dropped open. She swayed a little on her feet. "You've spoken to him."

"Best you sit down, Mrs. Potts," said Aziraphale. He gestured for her to take the other seat in front of the fireplace. "We two need to have a long conversation. Would you like some tea?" He poured the tea into the single cup that was on the tray, and he handed it to her. 

She sat. She drank. She looked a bit nervous. Aziraphale understood. He felt a bit nervous too. He decided to take a little risk.

"Miss Device made some very pointed accusations to me," said Aziraphale. "She seemed to think I used him poorly." He chose every word carefully, with an eye to plausible deniability. "You share a bedroom with her. I'm sure you had conversations about Mr. Anthony Crowley. Was there a special reason you liked him?"

The housekeeper said nothing. Aziraphale couldn't blame her for being cautious. If there was going to be any frankness, it would have to come from his side. 

"It's very odd how English law works, isn't it?", he said. "A thing that is criminal and punishable by death when done by men isn't even thought of as possible between women."

"I'm not sure I understand what you are trying to tell me, Mr. Fell."

"I think you understand me perfectly," said Aziraphale. "And you're lucky that I intend to treat you two far better than you treated us."

She nodded and set down her cup on a side table. Then she clasped her hands in front of her as if she were praying. But she didn’t seem afraid. Merely pedantic.

"I want you to understand," she said, "That we only wanted the best for you both. You were both so young. You were eighteen years old, Mr. Fell. I'm sure he was the first person like yourself that you'd ever met. You weren't nearly as circumspect as you thought you were. Working in the house as we did, Miss Device and I barely ever talked to the staff who worked at the stables and on the grounds and we still heard enough to make us suspicious. It would have come out."

Aziraphale frowned. A number of awkward conversations with gardeners had been required to help Crowley escape from the various sheds, follies, and outbuildings where they had met during that first autumn that they were together. At the time, he thought his distraction and subterfuge skills were top-notch, but it was distinctly possible that he had not been as clever at age eighteen as he was now that he was nineteen and a half. 

"Your Aunt Sandalphon had no reason to show mercy to you," said the housekeeper. "You stand between her son and the entire inheritance. She would have happily seen to it that Anthony was flogged to death in front of you. She would have made sure you were disinherited and committed to an asylum. As much as you might hate us right now, we saved your lives. We may have misled you both, but our consciences are clear."

"He had twenty-six pounds and six shillings owed to him, when you sent him away," said Aziraphale. "And you gave him only nineteen pounds two shillings and tuppence."

Her eyes widened as she took in the precision of his numbers. He saw her whole face shift. She rubbed her chin and looked at him closely. When she spoke, she was gentle. "I gave him all that I had in the cash box. I held nothing back." 

"But it wasn't all that was owed him." Aziraphale stood up from his comfortable chair, strode over to the portable desk that was balanced on the edge of his bed, and wrote out the numbers on a slip of paper. He handed it to her. "I expect the balance delivered to me by Monday afternoon."

The housekeeper looked up at him, and spoke slowly and clearly. "The accounts," she said. "They're watched very carefully. I can't simply--"

"Clearly nobody was watching the accounts when my husband was cheated out of his money!", said Aziraphale. "I expect it by Monday. You're lucky I'm not demanding interest."

Mrs. Potts stood up. He had to take a step backwards to not bump into her bosom. When she drew herself to her full height he could see that he was eight inches taller than her. There was absolutely no explanation for how short he felt. "Mr. Fell," she said. "I think you're under the mistaken impression that I have no leverage in this situation. I do. But, fortunately for you, I am not your enemy. So I have no reason to ever tell anyone what I know about you and your _husband_."

Damn. He had said that word out loud. 

"It will take me three weeks to liberate the balance of your husband's money," she said.

"Unacceptable," said Aziraphale. “I’m leaving to travel on Tuesday.”

"The timeframe isn't negotiable,” said Potts. “I need time to make sure that I don't get caught. And I'm very good at not getting caught. I'd be happy to give you lessons, young man. You are more in need of them than you may think."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Let me be your friend," she said. "You're a nice young man, and I'd like to see you at the head of this house someday. I've survived working here for almost forty years by not taking sides in your family's feuds, but I'm willing to make an exception for you. Now let’s sit down. We have a lot to talk about." 

  
  
  


***

  
  


October 1814

_My Dear Constance,_

_From today onward my travel schedule has resumed, as we originally planned it, and we will be able communicate regularly again. You cannot know how relieved I was to find your latest message when I arrived here in Shropshire. Not being able to reliably receive your messages for twenty four days nearly broke me. I kept imagining that you had been sent to gaol or hanged. And while the receipt of your last letter was very reassuring to me, I want you to know that its contents were not to my liking. I’m sure that you are proud to have gotten our bank account up to 319 pounds, but the suspense and terror I feel knowing how you hazard your life to get this money is breaking my health. As you love me, you must cease all of your extraordinary efforts to save for our future. I am pleased to inform you that they won’t be necessary anymore._

_Although I cannot yet report the reinstatement of my allowance, I am happy to tell you that a better future, a happy future we thought was foreclosed to us, has been reopened. The housekeeper informed me that you were never accused of stealing from the household. Therefore, once I am earl and Lady Sandalphon no longer has influence at Empyrean Hall, you can be reinstated at my pleasure, and with no objection from any of the staff. I think that a man with your skills and discretion would be an ideal candidate for the role of valet, and I hope this would be agreeable to you. I would expect you to travel with me to all sorts of wonderful locations, and to ride with me in my carriage and share my lodgings. Let me know what you think, and, please, until we meet again, avoid all hazards and live a life of modesty and safety, knowing that you will be rewarded in the end._

_Always Faithfully,_

_Your Angel_

“It’s funny,” Crowley said to the Queen Mother, as she finished reading. “If it worked out, then it would almost be like none of this,” he traced the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, and then made a broad gesture to indicate the parlour of the supper club, “Had ever happened. As if I had just stayed on as a servant in the household and worked my way up the ranks like I’d expected to do.”

Crowley was now trusted enough that he was allowed into the parlour before the rest of the supper club arrived. He still wasn’t allowed to be there when any deeds of pleasure were happening, but that was mostly because of the Queen Mother’s need to be seen applying the club rules fairly to all members. Crowley and the duke had just finished arranging the furniture and laying out towels and basins and little pots of grease in strategic locations while the Queen Mother was reading Crowley’s letter aloud. 

“The problem,” Crowley said, “is that I’m not that same person I once was. I’m not content to be a fart catcher following another man around every minute of the day. I like to make my own choices and be the captain of my own life.”

The Queen Mother looked at him as if he was a madman. “You’d rather haul ropes of smuggled tobacco in and out of attics than live on an estate in the country?” She pulled her stays on over her head and leaned over the back of a chair as the duke stepped behind her to help tighten the lacing. 

“Eeergh, buuuuh,” said Crowley, “It’s-- I, uh. Yuh.” 

He couldn’t quite find the words to explain it. There was something about the idea of serving at Empyrean Hall that repelled him. Just imagining returning to that life in that house made him want to vomit or hit someone. His feelings were visceral. And now that he was put on the spot, he found that he didn’t want to explore them or explain them. Fortunately, Duke Bottomly rescued him with a sensible question:

“How old is the current earl?” 

“Err,” said Crowley. “Sixty-five? Thereabouts.”

“His health?”, asked Bottomly, as his clever fingers traveled up and down the rows of the lacing of the stays to pull the slack out.

“Meh,” said Crowley. “Not too bad. He gets gouty whenever he over-indulges, but he’s fine whenever he eats like he should. And his mind is sharp as ever.”

“Rich man like that could hang on for a decade or even longer,” said the Queen Mother. She made some adjustments to the wadding that gave her a bosom and ran her fingers over her chest to verify the evenness and loft of her ersatz breasts. “It’s worth keeping that in mind.”

“A decade isn’t awful,” said Duke Bottomly. Upon receiving a nod from his lady, he heaved on the laces. “We two were barely ever together for the first five years.” 

The Queen Mother grunted. “That’s good,” she said. Bottomly brought the slack round the front and the Queen mother lent a finger to keep the laces from slipping as Bottomly secured her womanly figure with a double knot tied at her waist. “But the fact is,” said the Queen, “Nobody walks away from a title and hundreds of thousand of pounds of property.”

“It’s true,” said the duke. “If you want to stay with her, dear Constance, you will have to be content to wait for your beloved to inherit.”

“And why can’t Constance join the household now?”, said the Queen Mother. “Does her face matter so much if she’s to be a valet?”

So Crowley explained again about how Lady Sandalphon hated him for being scarred and thereby showing the proof of her cruelty and unladylike passions.

“Any chance that her ladyship remarries and moves out of the household?”, asked the duke.

“No,” said Crowley. “She’s been there ever since the earl’s wife first got ill twelve years ago. He thinks the world of her. She’s been raising his daughters; made a really wealthy match for the eldest; just brought his middle daughter out two years ago. There’s still the youngest to go and after that there is her own youngest daughter and all these other girl cousins that live with them. She’ll never run out of girls, and she likes them better than any husband because she can be as awful as she likes and none of them dare speak a word against her. The entire Fell household is a finishing school run by a madwoman.”

“Huh,” said the duke. But Crowley was just getting started.

“The girls are her little army. She dresses them all in identical white dresses and they creep around the house to spy on my angel and report back to her. They all hate my angel because Lady Sandalphon tells them to, so everywhere my angel goes in her own home she hears these girls whispering about her and laughing at her.”

“The poor dear,” said the duke. “That’s terrible.”

They all fell into silence. 

“So?”, asked Crowley. He expected some kind of great wisdom from a couple who had survived long odds and been together for two decades. He looked from the butler to the tavern-owner. “What do you advise me to do?”

Both of them sighed deeply. The duke rubbed his forehead, which took a while considering how far back his forehead went. The Queen Mother pursed her lips and raised her eyes to the ceiling as if the answer could be found in the cobwebs between the beams. 

“I’m not sure,” said the Queen Mother at last. “But as long as you both want to be together, there’s always hope. And sometimes, if you keep trying, a way opens up for you.” She gestured to indicate the entire parlour of her very discreet club for middle class men. “We created all this together, the duke and I. And we’ve worked together over the years on growing all the rest of our other businesses.”

“True,” said Bottomly. “And last year I finally decided that there was enough work for me in London that I wasn’t going back into the country to serve for the summer and autumn. And so I retired from service at last, and now we’re together every day.”

“At last,” said the Queen Mother. The duke took her hand and they exchanged a very intense bit of eye contact. Then they both sighed in a way that let Crowley know that the weight of these past decades had been very heavy indeed. 

“Well,” said the Queen Mother. “I’d better finish getting dressed.”

“And we two need to lay the board and then see if the kitchen needs help,” said the duke. “No rest for the wicked.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


For the next week, as he worked at his legal and illegal jobs driving around the city, Crowley thought about how to earn a decent living in a way that would be acceptable to his husband. He thought as he watched an actual steam-powered boat trundling along the Thames. He thought as he drove past the factories at the edge of town where fine jacquard-style fabrics were made by machines that worked a hundred times faster than any man. He thought as he drove over the miles and miles of new paved roads that hadn’t existed two years ago. It was clear that the world was changing faster than it ever had before, and change meant opportunity for clever men. There was no need for Crowley and his husband to choose between a life of crime or a life in the constrained world of the aristocracy. There was a third way, if only Crowley could figure out how to use his skills to participate in this new world of industry and invention. 

It was when he was sitting in traffic that the idea came to him. He was sitting on the wide bench of his carriage, staring down at the two mares’ backsides, thinking of how ridiculous it was that his passenger was only traveling a mile and a quarter, but that it was going to take forty-five minutes to transport him to his destination, because it was necessary to cross Westminster Bridge. The installation of the gas lamps on the bridge had reduced traffic flow over the bridge. Not because of the few feet of the bridge’s width that was closed off, but because every single driver in London had to slow down and stare as they passed the construction crew.

“Simpletons,” said Crowley. “All of you.”

The traffic was backed up all the way to St. James’ Park, which was also under construction. Crowley’s carriage hadn’t moved more than fifty feet in the last ten minutes. He couldn’t even see what was ahead of him (or catch so much as a glimpse of the marvelous new gas lamps) because he was stuck right behind an overloaded cart. He was sitting there, fuming, watching his two horses stamp and twitch, thinking about how the traffic in London was worse every year, when something perfectly ordinary happened: a pair of ladies in a tiny one-horse gig slipped right through an little opening in traffic next to him, wove around in front of cart and sped out of sight. 

At first, he was wistful. How he missed the days when he used to ‘borrow’ the earl’s fast gigs and tear up and down the lanes behind the great fields at the estate. Then he pondered why his single passenger had chosen to rent a big expensive carriage when he could be driving his own speedy little gig. ‘Probably doesn’t even know how to drive well enough to take advantage of how tightly those two-wheel gigs can turn,’ thought Crowley. ‘But if I were a rich man, that’s what I’d drive in London. I’d have a tiny little two-wheel gig and a good fast horse, a trotter that wasn’t afraid of getting close to other vehicles. Then I could get around any part of this city at any time of day.’ 

The cart in front of him crawled forward a few feet and he brought his horses up right behind it. He turned around to look at the men in top hats who were sitting in the carriage behind him. One of them was staring at the construction; the rest had newspapers. None of them expected to get where they were going anytime soon. On the street level, a few dandies made their way along the pavement, walking faster in their fashionably tight trousers than Crowley could drive right now. He amused himself by trying to guess which place they would reach by the time he got his next opportunity to inch his horses forward. 

“I think they’ll make it to the foot of the bridge before we pass by this building,” he said to his horses. “What do you think, girls, want to place a bet?” The women in the open-top carriage next to him looked over at him in horror. “Eeesssorry,” said Crowley, “Just talking to the horses. Like I do. On days like this. Oi! There’s a spot opening up on your left. Your driver had best take it if he can. Aaaaand it’s gone already. That’s bad luck.”

Then it came to him. An inspiration like a bolt of lightning. “By God!” he shouted. The profanity earned an ever dirtier look from the ladies in the open-topped carriage. There was a young girl in that carriage and one of the older women covered her ears. Crowley would normally be ashamed of using coarse language. But right now he hardly cared. His idea would work. He just needed to confirm it.

He peered through the windows of every carriage in the street and counted the number of people in each. Most of them had only one or two passengers. He looked at all the horses in the street, and little imaginary numbers swam over them, how much each animal cost, how old, how long they could last pulling how much weight over London’s streets. Then he did the calculation for the carriages: price to buy and cost to maintain and all. He knew exactly how much carriages such as the one he was currently driving rented for by the week and by the day. Then he estimated the cost of buying and maintaining a small two-wheeled gig and only one horse and he did the calculations for that. A two-seater two wheeled gig could be rented out very profitably, and for such a low fee that it wouldn’t be just rich people who could afford to rent one. 

Crowley counted the number of young gentlemen walking along the side of the street and the number of middle class men and women too. He was swinging his head wildly around to look at everything around him. His vision was positively swimming with all the details that he was taking in, and every single new detail pointed to the same amazing conclusion: His idea would work. Not only would it work, but it could be immensely profitable. And it would change everything. Which meant that Anthony J. Crowley was about to become one of London’s great industrialist heroes. 

The driver behind him started yelling at him and he abruptly realized that the cart in front of him was nearly a full two horse lengths ahead. His horses hadn’t dared move without his permission, and before he could signal them to start, someone slipped in from the side with their carriage at an angle that guaranteed they’d snarl up the traffic in two lanes for the next few minutes. When he realized what Crowley had allowed to happen, a driver in the other lane that was now blocked decided to get really creative in how he was describing Crowley’s mother. But there was nothing an angry London driver could say to dampen Crowley’s spirits at this moment. 

When he got into the stables that evening, the other drivers were grumbling as they tended their horses and cleaned their tack. 

“Worst day yet this autumn,” said one of them. “And the moving-in season hasn’t even started.” 

“They’re all going to try to come to town in the same week. With their boxes and parcels piled everywhere in the streets. Damned nobs.”

“How bad was it where you were Crowley?”

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I’ve just thought of the thing that’s going to finally solve the traffic problem in Central London!”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	19. Lying, For the Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present day, Aziraphale decides to do what he must to secure Adam's future, whether or not Crowley approves. 
> 
> In the past, Crowley puts his husband on an information diet for his own good, and it backfires.

  
  


March 1827, Tadfield

Aziraphale finished reading _Ivanhoe._ Now that the star crossed lovers had escaped captivity and survived a castle fire, and the brave hero had ridden across the country side and won a battle on horseback, Ivanhoe and Rowena had won the right to marry and live happily ever after. The children cheered the happy ending and then they all ran outside to reenact the final scenes of the story. 

“That was lovely,” said Mrs. Young. “The story seemed to come alive through you.”

“Very kind of you to say so,” said Aziraphale. And though he had first encountered the story as an adult, years after his own hopeful, youthful, marriage had ended, he still loved _Ivanhoe_. It was such a treat to imagine a world where true love prevailed against all obstacles, where chivalry was real, and where God protected those whom he had created to stand outside of the bounds of good Christian society. It had been so enjoyable today to make that romantic world come alive for a short time. And the children had believed it, as children will, and now they were dwelling in that beautiful world together on a magical spring afternoon when a dogcart could become a noble steed and a stick a lance. 

Aziraphale steeled himself. For the sake of his future Adam would need to be either apprenticed or brought into service. It should have been done already, and it couldn't be put off any longer, no matter how sentimental Aziraphale was about seeing the boy frolicking on the Youngs’ farm. Service was the best path of course, and Gabriel was blind enough that Adam could be taken on as a hall boy without him noticing that there was no resemblance between Adam and Aziraphale. The rest of the family had never been told Adam’s name and wouldn’t know that Adam was supposed to be his illegitimate son. Not that their opinions would matter for very much longer. Aziraphale would soon be the master of Empyrean Hall and, when he was, he would look after Adam from afar. Long afternoons spent reading stories to him would no longer be seemly, of course, but there might be some moments that could be stolen. 

None of what he was about to do was at all what he wanted, but Aziraphale was thirty-two years old, and he wasn’t a child anymore. He knew that stories were only a temporary reprieve from reality. Reality dictated that, as much as he might wish to humour the man who had been his husband and also the best lover of his life, and as much as he might wish to indulge himself in having a fantasy family, he needed to do what was right for the nearly eleven year old boy who was in his charge. And so Aziraphale tugged at his cravat and then he clasped his hands together and he said what needed to be said. 

“I was wondering,” he said to Mrs. Young, “If I might take Adam for a ride in my carriage tomorrow morning. I should like to show him where I live, and, if it's agreeable to you and Mr. Young, I’d like to offer him a position at the estate.” 

The gasp that Mrs. Young made was almost inaudible. If he wasn’t such a perceptive man, Aziraphale would have missed it. But he heard it, and also he saw the way her mouth turned down and her eyes twitched with sadness before her entire face became composed and still. She curtsied. “Thank you, Mr. Fell,” she said. “How generous you are to give our Adam such a wonderful opportunity.”

“Ahem,“ said Mr. Young. “Your Adam, sir. Not ours. Sir.” He gave a little bow. He was blinking rapidly, and he didn’t seem aware that there were little tears glistening on his eyelashes. “Shall I tell him sir, or do you wish to?”

Mrs. Young curtsied again, and then flew upstairs. 

Mr. Young led Aziraphale to the door, with his hands clasped and his head bowed like a mourner.

When they emerged into the bright sunshine, all was a joyous cacophony. The children had set up an elaborate play. Brian was standing in the dog cart with the wooden sword. Four year old Wensleydale was wrapped in rope and standing in the middle of a pile of twigs. Pepper, apparently riding an invisible horse, was running in circles around her brothers, holding a stick. She was panting dramatically and making clopping noises. Adam, as usual, was in the center, directing all the action.

“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez,” said Adam. “Here standeth the good knight Sir Brian! But is there no champion who will do battle against him to save the condemned from her fiery doom?” He pointed dramatically at little Wensleydale, who looked confused as to why he was tied up. “You are accused of sorcery, witch!”, said Adam. “Do you acknowledge your guilt?”

Wensleydale nodded. 

“You’re supposed to deny it,” shouted Pepper, as she looped around her brothers. “So I can prove you innocent on the field of battle.”

Aziraphale and Mr. Young stood silently at the edge of the children’s play area with their hands clasped in front of them as they watched Adam exhort his siblings to enact the great drama. Then Adam held up his hand commandingly and a solemn silence fell upon the children. The young ones all stared at him with wide eyes. And Aziraphale, caught up by the spell cast by the tall and charismatic boy with the russet curls, kept his peace and said nothing. 

“Will no champion appear?”, shouted Adam. “Will so young and beautiful a creature perish without one blow struck on her behalf?” 

“Actually,” whispered Aziraphale. “Best not to interrupt their game. I’ll tell Adam everything tomorrow. Don’t say anything to him today. I want to be the one to explain everything. Will ten AM be acceptable?”

Mr. Young nodded and followed behind Aziraphale as the aristocrat snuck past the children and headed to his waiting carriage.

“I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe!”, shouted Pepper. “And I proclaim thee a coward!”

***

As Aziraphale rode from Tadfield to Empyrean Hall in his carriage, he cried. He knew that Crowley would never forgive him. He knew that he was striking the blow that would end whatever was left of his relationship with the only man he ever expected to love. Their last conversation, nine months earlier in Tadfield, had made it abundantly clear that there was no way that Crowley would take responsibility for making sure that his son had a career before it was too late.

Aziraphale still remembered the end of their fight in the inn in Tadfield as if it had been yesterday . . .

. . . “You’re mad!”, said Aziraphale. He was half crying.

They were sitting next to each other in bed in the little room, both dressed in their nightshirts, both so completely overcome with anger that they couldn’t even look at each other. Aziraphale still had a candle lit on the little table next to the bed, and he was staring at it with his arms folded over his chest. 

“Can’t you see that you are throwing away Adam’s future because of your insane prejudices,” said Aziaphale. “He is nine years old! The opportunity will not be available for much longer. I have already promised you that I will see that his education continues at Empyrean Hall. Considering that I’m likely to be earl within the year, I think that is a promise you can rely upon.”

Crowley hissed. He crossed his own arms over his nightshirt and sat up in the narrow bed with the sheets pulled up to his belly. “I want Adam to live in a world without upstairs people and downstairs servants and without landlords and tenants," he said. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “That’s childish. You are a parent and you need to accept reality.”

“Reality is mighty convenient for you nowadays, isn’t it?”, said Crowley. And he curled up and faced the wall. Aziraphale could actually hear the sound of his nostrils flaring. 

“Please,” said Aziraphale. “Don’t stand on ceremony. Tell me your real feelings.”

Crowley rolled back over. His eyes were red. “You’re obnoxious. Now that you have so much power, you’re defending the system, and you’ve forgotten how much everybody else suffers under it-- from second and third sons on down to prostitutes in alleyways. All of us suffer, except for those of you at the top.” 

Aziraphale grabbed at the top edge of the sheet and twisted it in his hands. "As long as all of us who are gentry do our part to treat those under us well, the whole system works,” he said. “That’s why it’s important for good people to be in high positions. I set a good example with my life and my works, and I influence those around me to do likewise.”

Crowley snorted. “You could do a lot more good if you stopped extracting rents from all the people who actually do work on a daily basis.”

“Administration is work,” said Aziraphale. “And if all the good landlords were to break up their estates and give them away, that would only leave the bad. And then where would we be?"

"That’s why we have to break up all the estates at the same time. Get rid of them all," said Crowley. 

“Ridiculous,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’m hardly the only one who thinks this way,” said Crowley. 

"Well, when your Francis Burdett delivers you a magical world where every farmer is a freeholder and every man has the vote, then we can, in good conscience, allow Adam to enjoy an endless childhood in the countryside.” said Aziraphale. “Are we done with the fantasy now?”

“You used to be willing to imagine with me,” said Crowley. “Remember?”

“What am I supposed to imagine?”, said Aziraphale. “A revolution? Shall I imagine myself sitting in a dungeon waiting to get my head chopped off by a great machine for the supposed crime of having property?”

“In France it’s not a crime for us to be together,” said Crowley. “We could run away together. You and me.”

“Nobody celebrates the union of two men in France,” said Aziraphale. “Attitudes are no different.”

“Yes,” said Crowley. “But the law is. If you moved to France, whatever property you owned there wouldn’t go to the crown if someone caught you with a cock in your mouth.”

“There’s nothing I own that can be sold,” said Aziraphale. “It’s all entailed. So we’d starve in France. And no one is going to catch me at anything. Doors have locks for a reason; I hardly need to worry as long as I’m in a private house.”

“Nice for you, then,” said Crowley. “They’ve put up a pillory up on Drury Lane. I have to pass it every time I go to my supper club.”

“Well nobody forces you to go to that molly house,” said Aziraphale. “And in a year or so, once Gabriel has gone on to his greater reward, if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d be welcome if you wanted to move into Empyrean Hall at last.”

“I don’t want to be your damned servant,” said Crowley. 

“What?”

“I don’t want to be your creature, to be summoned to service you every night and then to slip out of your bed in the morning in time to iron your shirts. I don’t want to be hiding in a little room off of your bedroom repairing your stockings while you sit in the great dining hall and eat creme brulée and drink imported wine with other rich snobs.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just-,” said Aziraphale. 

“Yes, you do,” said Crowley. “You do.”

Aziraphale was silent.

“I wanted to be your husband every day,” said Crowley. “I wanted to sit at the same supper table. I wanted to share a life. It never mattered how big or small that life was, or how hard I had to work or what kind of work I did. I just wanted it to be you and me. Equals. Binary stars. Orbiting each other.” 

“I can’t,” said Aziraphale. “My rank,” he said. “It lets me stay safe. It would let me protect you, if you’d just not be so stubborn.”

Crowley shook his head. 

Aziraphale burst into tears. Crowley sat up and stared at him and slowly shook his head from side to side. 

"This," said Crowley. "This innocent act. You aren't an innocent anymore. You know what reality is. You know that you can't keep me in a gilded prison cell in your rooms. The only way for you to have me is for us both to be free. I can't just see you once a year. It reopens the wound every time, and I'm slowly bleeding to death. So you need to make a choice. I'll meet you halfway. I can sell my share of the carriage business and we can move to the countryside and learn how to be farmers or something. But I think you might enjoy living in London with me. I'm a junior partner now. I can afford to rent us some private rooms near the stables. I’ve Sundays off and two afternoons besides. We could walk through the city together, take in the sights. And when Mr. Wright retires, you can take over doing the books and the paperwork for the stables. It would be a real partnership between us. You grew up as only minor gentry; you could be happy in a simpler life, if you let yourself."

"They'll find us eventually," said Aziraphale. "It would be such a scandal if I left, that people would look for me. And when my family discovers why I left and who you are, they'll see you hanged," said Aziraphale. "We wouldn't last a year."

"I think you’re wrong,” said Crowley. “I think we’d be perfectly fine. But even if you are right, so what? So we get a year together. A year, angel. Think of it. Waking up together in each others' arms for three hundred and sixty five days in a row. In a decade and a half of meeting you in secret, I haven’t gotten to wake up next to you even a half a hundred times. A year is a bargain."

Aziraphale shook his head. He used his fingertips to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes. "But if they killed you and not me, then I'd be without you," he said. "I'll have to spend the rest of my life alone. This way I can think about you when we're apart. I can imagine that you are happy and well and I can have hope of seeing you again."

"My heart can’t do this for much longer,” said Crowley. “It’s a shame, Aziraphale. You’re so afraid of death, but death is coming for us all eventually. I hope you decide to live before it gets you. Blow out the candle. I’m going to sleep.” . . . 

. . . And that had been it. They hadn’t made love at all. Crowley had left for London at first light without saying another word. Aziraphale’s many frantic letters, begging for permission to bring Adam to Empyrean Hall, had gone unanswered for nine months. 

Aziraphale hated to lie and sneak, but Crowley had left him no choice. Bringing Adam Young to the grounds of Empyrean Hall and setting him on a path that could lead to a life of gentle indoor employment and a comfortable income was absolutely the right thing to do. It would cost Aziraphale dearly; he was sure Crowley wouldn’t speak to him for years. But Adam was his charge, he had sworn that he would take care of him, and so he must do the right thing. And, perhaps, in the end, Crowley would come to understand. 

***

October 1814

"I don't understand," said Mr. Wright. "Two-wheeled gigs are already available for rent in London."

"No!", said Crowley. He paced back and forth in the stableman's cramped little office. "This is different. There's a driver, you see. You rent the two-wheeled gig with the one horse and it comes with a driver. And you rent it for short trips."

"Customers don't want to sit next to a driver," said Mr. Wright. "Especially ladies." 

"The driver isn't in the seat," said Crowley. 

"Are you going to ride postillion?" Wright was running his finger down the ledger book. He found his line and picked up his quill to enter a number into the book. 

"There's the platform in the back."

"Platform?", said Wright. He put his quill down and opened up the till. "The little one they sometimes have for the luggage?"

"Yes!", said Crowley. "A man could stand there and drive from the rear. Then you've got the economy and good handling of a two-wheel gig. Lots of people can’t afford to rent a whole carriage, but they could afford this. It will be half the price! Might be able to get the price even lower, because with the speed of these little gigs, you can get more fares in a day. You could weave back and forth through traffic like a shuttlecock on a loom. Some day there will be hundreds of them all over London, getting everyone around much faster than the big oversized ones we use today. But we'll be the first ones to invent them, so we'll be at the vanguard of it all!"

"You are a hard working man," said Mr. Wright. "And I admire your enterprising spirit. But I think once you've slept on the idea, you'll realize why it can't work. Here's your two shillings and sixpence. Good work today, Crowley. Send in Jenkins please." 

"You're missing out on a great opportunity here!", said Crowley. "You could have got in on the ground floor."

"Jenkins!"

***

"I think you're a madman," said the carriage repair man. 

"But you just said it would work," said Crowley. "It's a good idea."

"The money part works," said the carriage repair man, "But you can't drive from the back of the carriage."

Crowley pointed at the drawings again. "There is no actual problem. It's easy to see over the awning. Any above-average height man can do it. Right there are the little metal hooks on top of the awning to keep the reins in place. And there," he pointed to a T-shaped object that rose off of the platform on the back, "there is the bar to lean against so the driver can get a bit of rest."

"You'll be driving on a rainy day, take a fast turn, slip off the platform, and be trampled in the street," said the carriage repair man. "So as long as it never rains in London, it's perfectly safe."

Crowley tilted his head and looked at his drawing again. "Arrrhhhhhh," he said. 

***

"And you see," said Crowley, "there's a little texture on the platform and a drain in the middle and this raised edge on the side to keep the driver from sliding off. And a leather strap here goes around the driver's middle for extra security."

"I could do it," said the blacksmith. "It's your life, after all. It will cost you ten pounds."

"Ten pounds, are you mad?", said Crowley.

"Not as mad as you," he replied.

  
  


***

November 1814, London

  
  


It was already nearly time for Crowley’s husband to return to him, and, for the last month, Crowley’s twice weekly letters had been elaborate laceworks of words woven around gaping omissions. He had been eliding over the fact that he hadn’t given up his little side jobs or his visits to his supper club. Because reading about those things made Aziraphale worried. And Crowley wanted Aziraphale to be calm, because it was better for his health. Furthermore, and for the same reason, he had not challenged Aziraphale’s notion that they could both be content to have their marriage be confined to clandestine weekly meetings for however many years it might take for Aziraphale to become earl. 

But now, at last, he was ready to reveal his true plan, the brilliant business plan which would not only mean the end of his criminal activities (except, of course, for sodomy), but also the thing that would let Azriaphale become wealthy independently of his family, as well as giving them both the freedom and excuse to spend all their days together as business partners. Crowley bent over the letter that the duke was putting the finishing touches on. The page was crowded with his own drawings and a table of prices and figures which made him so dizzy that he needed to partially cover it with blank pieces of paper so that he could read each individual line to make sure that all the information was exactly correct. And when he was sure, he picked up the pen and stuck out his tongue and marked the bottom of the page with the letter ‘C’.

“ ‘S good,” he said to the duke. “Send it.”

  
  


***

October 1814, A country house in Devonshire

  
  


Aziraphale dismissed the footman who brought it and tore open the letter. It was from Crowley. 

_Dear Angel,_

_What would you say to being married to a famous inventor?_

"Er," said Aziraphale to the piece of paper. He felt himself blinking. "Is that on offer?"

Aziraphale opened up a second piece of paper that had a sketch of a funny-looking gig on it, with arrows pointing to different parts of it, and a bunch of numbers written in a vertical column along the side. 

He turned back to the first sheet of paper which was full of talk about collateral and loans and net income and all sorts of things that made Aziraphale feel like he was reading a letter from his Uncle Gabriel. 

He read all the way to the end of it and realized he was utterly mystified by the contraption that Crowley seemed to want to invent, and also how it was meant to make money. But there was one thing he was very, very certain of: he was holding two pages that had been written in the hand of Mr. Waxdall, the butler who was also a member of that damnable club. 

“Oh Good Lord!”, said Aziraphale. “He's back there again.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_Dear Angel,_

_I hope this letter finds its way to you. I think a few of mine may have been lost. If not, I apologize for repeating myself._

_I really do need an answer about the investment. I’ve found a good horse for sale for only 105 guineas: a four year old half-Arabian mare who is a good trotter but had an unfortunate accident. The damage is purely cosmetic. She’s got personality, but so do I, so I think we’re well matched. I hope you got the final figures that I sent in my last. But, just in case, I enclose them again. We have 339 pounds saved as of this writing, and so, as you can see, I’ll need to take a loan for the balance, and also so that I can keep 50 pounds back for contingencies._

_I love you always and I can’t wait until you are in my arms again._

_Yours,_

_Constance_

  
  


Aziraphale was avoiding writing to his husband for the first time ever. He had let two letters remain unanswered because he was steaming with rage. And this one only made him more angry. 

“339 pounds!?!”, he said to the piece of paper. “When last we communicated about money you had 319! I know where you got it all from, and if I confront you, you’ll only lie to me again. And now you’re hoping I won’t notice in all this frenzied business talk. I’m not an idiot, Crowley. And I don’t appreciate being treated like one. You don’t want a business partner. You don’t want a husband. You just want to do whatever harebrained thing you feel like and then you want me to just . . . put up with it. Well I’m not going to. I’m about to write you a very strongly worded letter that you won’t be able to ignore. And I’m going to tell you exactly what I think of all this lying and sneaking about. So there.”

Aziraphale picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink. He had composed virtually all of the angry letter in his mind, but then he imagined Crowley reading it at the molly house just as the constable’s men battered down the door. 

“And that’s the problem,” said Aziraphale. “Whatever I write could be the last thing I ever say to you.”

For the next few days, he felt like he was going mad. He second-guessed himself and third-guessed himself. He would write an angry letter, scratching the paper so hard that his quill nearly made holes in it, and then he’d say to himself: ‘I can’t just go accusing him of something without proof,’ and he’d crumple it up and throw into the fire. Only to start another letter a few minutes later. And then he’d say ‘What does a few hundred pounds matter, if it makes him happy and he stays out of trouble?’, and then he’d realize that Crowley was always in one sort of trouble or another, and he’d crumple that letter up and toss it into the fire.

Messers Patten and Sedwell weren’t members of Aziraphale’s particular club, but they were professional bachelors in the same mould, and in their tour of the countryside, they happened to arrive at the same house that Aziraphale was at, only a few days after Aziraphale received the letter that had angered him so. All three of them quickly figured what they had in common, and their friendship was instant. Because Pat and Seddie didn’t know that Crowley was “a common groom”, Aziraphale received a great deal of sympathy when he aired his grievances about his lover’s business plan to them.

They all got quite drunk together one night in Seddie’s room, lying around in their banyans and nightshirts, and Seddie noticed that despite the drink, Aziraphale’s shoulders were bow-string tight, and so he offered to rub them. As soon as Seddie’s hands touched his neck, Aziraphale realized that his skin was starved for touch. Within a minute, he had shaken off his banyan and pulled his shirt open so that Seddie could slip his hands under the linen and work his thumbs into the meat of his shoulders. Then he moaned and lolled his head and listened as Pat babbled entertainingly and got himself even more sozzled. Eventually, inevitably, Pat started to brag about the size of his prick. 

“It chokes everyone,” he said. 

And Aziraphale, who was nearly as drunk as Pat, made a boast. Then he made good on his boast, and before he knew it, he was wiping at the corners of his mouth and declaring himself victorious. At that point, there was really no reason at all not to get completely naked, and by morning Aziraphale had well and truly lost any moral high ground that he might have had in his marriage. 

He dashed off a letter to Crowley the next morning:

_My Dear Constance,_

_I trust your judgement in the matter of the horse. Use our money as you see fit. We will discuss the details when we meet again in December, but in the meantime, I’m sure you’ll make excellent decisions._

_All my love,_

_A_

Aziraphale spent an entire week of evenings exchanging favours with Seddie and Pat; the three of them never slept more than five hours in a night. By day, Aziraphale wandered around the pretty gardens of the estate where they were staying, participating in insipid conversations with their hosts and competing with Seddie and Pat for the most ridiculous ways to pretend to court the young ladies who they were ostensibly there to visit with. There was a hilarious moment when Seddie ‘accidentally’ fell into a freezing cold fountain and emerged to spout water-themed poetry at their giggling hostesses. The entire week was a lark. By the end of it, Aziraphale’s shoulders were completely relaxed and his bollocks were completely drained. When the visit was done, he poured himself into his carriage to set out to the next house. 

By the time he arrived there, he was starting to have guilty fantasies about receiving a letter with a single pale blue ribbon in it. ‘He could already be hanged for all I know and here I am cheating on him.’ Then he defended himself: ‘It’s not like I allowed it to get all the way to the ultimate act. Just a bit of fun between friends. And, for all I know, he does the same at his molly house. What man goes to a place like that and doesn’t indulge?’ The guilt reared up in his chest and he considered writing a confessional letter, ‘But what’s the use of that? It’s useless to upset him while we’re apart. I’ll just tell him everything in December.’ 

The next few weeks passed by in a haze of lies. Aziraphale received Crowley’s letters, stuffed them into his portable desk for a few days, and then, when the anxiety got to be too much, he tore them open and read them and dashed off a response. Whenever he left his rooms, he dutifully pretended to be just the right amount interested in the young ladies of whichever house he was staying in. Then he pretended to like hunting for as long as necessary to earn the right to spend a few quiet hours perusing the libraries of these great country houses. 

Every night, he lay in bed reading a borrowed book until sleep finally took him, and with sleep came nightmares in which his husband was hanged for sodomy, transported across the sea for smuggling, or knifed in an alley by a criminal. 

When he finally returned home to Empyrean Hall to get fitted for his clothes for the season and to pack up for London, Aziraphale felt like he was going mad. He would sit at meals with his family, watching all their subtle lies and manipulations and strivings for power and he would think: ‘And now my husband and I are doing it too. He’s lying to me. And I’m lying to him.’ And then one of Aziraphale’s relatives would aim a verbal attack at him and he’d fumble his response and end up getting emotionally pummelled. 

  
  


***

  
  


Aziraphale was hiding in the library, reading a brand new novel about a sweet young girl who had been plucked from her middle class life and taken to live in a grand country estate filled with girls who despised her and with an uncle who could only see her as ungrateful. He felt a great deal of kinship with the protagonist, but his musings were interrupted by a footman, who had brought a letter for him. And a message: “Your Uncle Gabriel wishes to see you in his office at your earliest convenience.”

Aziraphale dismissed the footman and tore open the letter. It was from Crowley. Two pages, written in the hand of Mr. Waxdall. 

‘That ‘duke’ again!’, said Aziraphale to himself. ‘Why must my husband involve criminals in his business machinations?’ And when he read the letter’s contents, it was even worse. The first page of it was covered, front and back, with tables full of numbers and income projections that went all the way out to 1835, when Crowley’s imaginary business would apparently be earning twenty thousand pounds a year selling Crowley’s invention all over Europe and America. The second page was a formal letter asking Aziraphale if he wanted to be a partner in the whole mad venture. It was signed by Anthony J. Crowley. Not Constance. Anthony J. Crowley.

The shock of seeing a single piece of paper with both his name and Crowley’s on it made Aziraphale’s heart seize in fear. He crumpled it up and threw it into the library’s fire. Then he paced the library, cursing under his breath. 

There was a knock at his door. “The earl, sir,” said a voice. “He insists that you come to him now.”

“I’m on my way,” said Aziraphale. He left the library and made his way along the gallery, seething. “What were you thinking, sending that here,” he muttered. “What’s wrong with you? You stupid, stupid man!”

“Who are you talking to?”, said a high pitched voice. 

He turned around and saw his thirteen year old cousin, Helena. And she wasn’t alone, she was part of a small group of girls in white dresses who were hiding between the sculptures of angels and giggling at him. He held his head up and walked past without answering them. The heir of Empyrean Hall owed no explanations to girls. Also, he was sure that his Aunt Sandalphon was deliberately sending the thirteen and fourteen year olds out to follow him and torment him. 

He heard one of them say, in a carrying whisper “I think he’s having more of his ‘episodes’. Poor thing. His mind is fragile.”

As he stalked past them, Aziraphale was more careful to keep his thoughts silent. ‘If Lady Sandalphon can’t get me disqualified for sodomy,’ he told himself, ‘then she’ll try for madness.’

Aziraphale pasted a smile on his face as he entered his uncle’s study, and he was rewarded with a reasonably friendly nod from Gabriel. His uncle was the only member of the household who was ever pleased with him. The old man was a traditionalist, and tradition dictated that the only person who truly mattered in the house, apart from himself, was the heir. 

Gabriel was ensconced behind his desk, with an expanse of papers spread out in front of him. He needed Aziraphale to open letters and take things in and out of files, because his hands were tired, and, also, because he thought that helping with the paperwork was educational for Aziraphale. 

“You and me against them all,” he said, as he grumbled over how much the dancing and music lessons cost for the girls. “And in three weeks’ time we bring Theodosia and Sarah out. Look at this bill from the dressmaker. That’s not even counting gloves and hats and shoes and all that frippery. It’s going to come to nearly a thousand pounds. There’s no way to rein your aunt in.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Aziraphale. It was all he ever needed to say. Aziraphale got through two hours of paperwork with just those two words. And then, afterwards, the earl had him pour out a tumbler of brandy for each of them, and they settled into a pair of comfortable armchairs for what was sure to be an uncomfortable talk. 

“Speaking of the season,” said Gabriel, “You managed to charm quite a few of the young ladies you visited over the summer and autumn. And my sister informs me that you already have invitations to events in London this winter.”

That was true indeed. The less time he spent at the Fell family’s townhouse, the better he could keep his sanity. 

“Did you know,” said Gabriel, “That Miss Deighton’s grandmother has written directly to me to plead her case?”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Yes, her.” Miss Deighton had been aggressive in her pursuit of him all last spring, sending relatives to waylay him at every opportunity, and, try as he might, he could not get her interested in another man. He had avoided visiting her in his travels, but on his way home, he had stayed two nights at a house in Gloucestershire and she’d contrived to be visiting at the same time he was there. 

“I quite agree with you,” said Gabriel. “Pretty, but not suitable. Her family is new money and there’s not enough of it to be worth making the match. You showed good judgement there. Which brings us to the unfortunate matter of Miss Hennessey.”

Aziraphale flinched. That had been a disaster. It was all Pat’s fault. He and Seddie had invited Aziraphale to a liquid luncheon in their room, and Pat had pressed drinks on him until he was tipsy and then they’d all gone out for a walk in the garden with the young misses. Aziraphale’s aim in his pretend courtship of Miss Hennessy had been to amuse the other lads, but he’d apparently been more effusive than he realized and the poor young lady had become convinced that he felt all sorts of passions for her. Disabusing her had been a bit awkward, but he’d been so merry that he hadn’t minded the awkwardness all that much. The young lady’s family, apparently, had minded. Enough to write to his uncle.

“It was bad of you to lead her along like that only to reject her,” said Gabriel. “You know how emotional and foolish young women are. They want to marry the first man who says a kind word to them. It may be hard for you to understand how they are because we men aren’t like that. We are more rational. We don’t let our passions lead us into regrettable actions.”

“Of course not, sir.”

  
  


***

  
  


December 1814, London

A nineteen-year-old aristocrat with pale blonde curls stood in a small room in the midst of a maze of stacked casks. He was about to greet his husband after a tumultuous five month separation. His head was bowed, his hands were clasped in front of him, and he was wearing a solemn expression on his face. 

“Ahem”, said Aziraphale. “I sucked a man while he sat on his lover’s prick. And I’m very sorry. I hope you can forgive me.” 

That didn’t sound right, so Aziraphale twisted his hands around each other and tried again. 

“Darling, I was very lonely and worried and perhaps a bit angry at you, and I’m afraid I found rather a bad way of handling my feelings.”

That wasn’t good either, it was kind of cowardly. 

“Right,” said Aziraphale. “Crowley, I . . .”

And the door of the little room opened.

“Crowley!”, said Aziraphale. “I’ve missed you so very much.” And that was all he said.

  
  



	20. The Boy Who Never Grew Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes Adam Young to visit the estate, and things don't go to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW-- Discussion of the death of a child

  
  


March 1827, near Tadfield in Oxfordshire

As Aziraphale sat in his carriage on his way to pick up Crowley's son to take him to Empyrean Hall, he thought again about taking a wife. He wondered whether it was only a matter of time before he found it in himself to tell some credulous young woman how attractive he found her. Lying had become second nature to him over the years, a necessity for surviving life in the Fell household, but Azriaphale had always liked to pretend that he still had some boundaries of decency left. His actions today gave irrefutable proof that those boundaries were imaginary. After all, if he was going to deliberately violate the trust of the one man he had ever loved, then he could probably find an excuse to lie to anyone. 

He certainly was receiving enough pressure to marry. Even in his private club, where he didn’t have to pretend to be interested in women, the other men seem to think that thirty-two years old was quite old enough to stop faffing about and get serious about his legacy. Only last month, he’d had a very disagreeable conversation on that very subject . . .

. . . Aziraphale Fell had been trying to read a newspaper in a quiet corner of his gentlemens’ club when Lucien Morningstar had cornered him and taken the opportunity to offer some unasked-for advice:

“It’s all well to dress how you must to get along with your family,” said Morningstar, “But there’s no need to be so drab when you’re here at the club. It’s mawkish.”

Aziraphale touched his black waistcoat with his thumb, an involuntarily defensive gesture, and then he shook his paper shut and looked up at his interlocutor. He had spent the last fourteen years in a delicate dance with Morningstar, who had never quite gotten over the fact that even though he had been the one to bring the prettiest boy of the year to the club, Aziraphale had never once shared any act of kind with him. It didn’t help matters that Aziraphale had a reputation for liking older men and for having an unnatural endurance for being bent over the side of a bed or put on his hands and knees. Unfortunately, those characteristics were precisely what Morningstar was looking for in a lover. Morningstar had quite the reputation himself, and he seemed to feel entitled to his turn with the sweetest arse in the club; he barely hid his resentment of the lucky men to whom Aziraphale had granted his favours over the years.

It was personal, actually. The simple fact was that Aziraphale didn’t trust Morningstar, and Aziraphale was, despite his hedonistic reputation, discerning. He required a very particular type of lover: a certain type of cock, a certain narrowness of the hips, a relatively kind heart, and, of course, endurance. Not that anything had ever worked out in the long term; his lovers tended to notice that he often hid his face in a pillow during the ultimate act and that he never called out their names while they pleasured him. 

At least Morningstar wasn’t here to importune Aziraphale today. He’d clearly just had his cut of some young man or another; Lucien’s clothes were a rumpled mess, he reeked of lust, and he was insufferably cocky. Aziraphale wasn’t in a position to be able to send the older man away entirely. However, he was not inclined to be tolerant of Morningstar’s opinions on his choice of clothing colours, especially since he was within the boundaries of propriety. After all, it had been only five months since his cousins Michael and Uriel had lost their only son to the very same fits that had claimed so many previous generations of Fell boys.

“He was my heir,” said Aziraphale. “And I was fond of him.”

“Of course,” said Morningstar. "Eight years old, was he?”

“Seven and a half,” said Aziraphale.

Morningstar nodded curtly. “A tragedy, to be sure,” he said. “Naturally _you_ feel it intensely. You’ve always been sensitive."

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. And he opened his newspaper. He was completely done talking about the death of his cousins' son. Despite his hatred of Michael and Uriel, he had made an effort to get to know his young successor and to try to influence him towards kindness. And he now found himself completely heartbroken. 

"My father spoke with your uncle," Morningstar said. "Gabriel is very concerned about the future of the estate. He says that things could get contentious without a clear successor in the next generation. He says he’s nearing his end and he hates to see things so unsettled."

"Mmmmm," said Aziraphale. “Thank you for the information.” He turned the page on his newspaper. But Morningstar didn’t take the hint. He just sat down on the sofa next to Aziraphale and started to pack tobacco into a pipe. 

"Your family is very unhealthy,” he said as he lit up his pipe. “I think it's in the bloodlines. Outcrossing is the solution, of course."

Aziraphale made a neutral noise. He hoped it communicated that he didn't want to talk about his so-called bloodlines, his late heir, or anything else. 

"You know," said Morningstar, "None of this would have been so eventful, would it, if you had had a son of your own."

"Yes, well, obviously I'm not the marrying sort!” Aziraphale’s voice rose louder than he intended. In a quiet corner on the far side of the room, a well-dressed couple paused their intense private conversation to look up at him reproachfully. 

"Why not?" said Morningstar. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-two," said Aziraphale. 

"That's only a little older than I was when I got married," said Morningstar. "And look at me now. Two sons. Heir and a spare. The elder is already in his second year at Eton."

"Thank you for the advice,” said Aziraphale. “But I know myself to pieces and I know for a certainty that I have no interest at all in engaging in the generative act."

“So you close your eyes," said Morningstar. "And you think of something else while you use your brat-getter to get some brats. It's not completely unpleasant. It only takes a few minutes of your time and then you're back to your own bed. With a likely young wife, you'll get her into the pudding club in only a month or two. And then, if all goes well, you won't have to touch her again for a year or more."

Aziraphale shook his head. "I couldn't marry without love."

"What's love got to do with marriage?", said Morningstar. "Or getting children? Don't be a fool, Azzie. You need a son of your own. A boy whose upbringing you can control. A boy who is loyal to you alone. Otherwise you'll be constantly watching your back for the rest of your life. The Lennox family's winter ball is in two weeks. You'll be out of mourning by then, right? I'll introduce you to my second cousin, Miss Watson. She's eighteen and she comes from good healthy stock. She's very beautiful, very biddable, won't embarrass you, and she comes with four thousand pounds of her own plus a nice little summer cottage on the Scottish coast. Think about it."

Aziraphale did think about it. He met Miss Watson and he danced with her and thought himself completely unimpressed by her. He introduced her to an equally witless young man who had sixteen thousand pounds so that together they made an even twenty thousand. As for himself, as much as he tried, he still couldn’t find a way to make the math work with any woman . . . 

. . . As he rode to Tadfield, Aziraphale reflected on whether he would ever be able to fulfil his reproductive responsibility to his family. He knew very well how to close his eyes and imagine someone else behind him. How difficult could it be to imagine it was someone else beneath him? He’d never penetrated any man, but if he could fuck his own fist, surely he could do his wife the kindness, at least as often as was necessary. 

Perhaps, he reflected, he could find a kind-hearted girl with no romantic prospects and do her some good. The estate was beautiful. Aziraphale knew from experience that a daily ride around the grounds was a near substitute for love. And the libraries at Empyrean Hall were extensive. There was an entire romance section that he had added over the last decade. That ought to make the right sort of woman happy. If he was very kind and he lied prettily enough, if he gave his wife his sweet words and his stables and his libraries and the season in London and a few lovely children, then it wouldn't really matter that he couldn't give her his heart. She probably wouldn't even notice. She'd be happy. And that would make the lie good.

That was the point of lies. They were what had to happen sometimes. To make it possible to take care of people. To do what was right. Like now. Crowley had an irrational hatred for life in service because he had been injured by Lady Sandalphon. But Aziraphale could offer Adam a chance to really rise in the social hierarchy, and Adam deserved that chance. Crowley would find out, of course, but not until after Adam had started at the estate. When he saw how much Adam was thriving, he'd come around. Surely. And Aziraphale could take Adam to London in the winters so that Crowley could see him for weekly suppers. After over a decade of only seeing his son once a year, he could hardly be upset about such an improvement in the arrangement. 

There was no question that this lie about Adam would be worth it in the long run. Aziraphale was sure of it, just as he was sure that all of the lies he had lived over the past fifteen years would be worth it in the end. The world was cruel and pitiless to the poor. The memory of all the abandoned farms in the countryside and the mobs of starving wretches in London during the Year Without A Summer had never left Aziraphale. He had barely been able to save anyone back then. But Uncle Gabriel was near to the end of his life, and Aziraphale would soon be in a position to protect a great many people: his unmarried sisters, his cousins on his mother's side, those rare Fell cousins who were actually decent human beings, and the tenants of the Fell Estate. Next to all that good which could be done, Aziraphale's own particular wishes about how forthrightly he would prefer to conduct his affairs weren't that important. He was an adult. He could accept the reality of how the world worked. The world would only punish honesty from men who were constituted as he was. There was no choice but to live a life of lies. But at least Aziraphale would live a life of purposeful principled lies and he would sneak his little pleasures in around the margins of a life lived in service to the greater good. 

Aziraphale's carriage pulled up in front of the little farm house where Adam lived. Adam and his younger siblings were in the yard playing some game where the other three children were menacing poor little Wensleydale with weapons. Adam was wielding the wooden practice sword Aziraphale had brought him last year and Brian and Pepper had long sticks. When Aziraphale arrived, the children all ran towards him to greet him and to bid him to watch their martial demonstrations. Even though Mr. and Mrs. Young did their best to discourage Adam from keeping his wealthy patron waiting, it took nearly twenty minutes before the boy could be separated from his siblings and bundled into the carriage for the long ride to the estate. 

It was a beautiful spring day in the countryside. They passed a hillside that was covered in a lacy white covering of cow parsley, and another that was showing the first bluebells. Almost all of the Fell family were missing these simple country sights because they were still in London and would be for another two months.

Adam was not interested in flowers. However, he loved the carriage and bounced around on the cushions and played with the curtains and asked how the suspension was made to work and how tall the wheels were. And then, for the rest of the two-hour journey from his home to the hall, Adam spoke continuously about the adventures he hoped to have when he grew up. He was excited about joining the navy and fighting pirates on the high seas and exploring the Arctic and riding in a hot air balloon all the way to the stars. He spoke rapidly, like his father, and gestured so enthusiastically that he kept thumping the sides of the carriage with his hands. It was only when they finally passed through the gatehouse and started on the winding road that led up to the hall, that Adam started to take an interest in the things he could see outside the carriage window.

"This is properly an estate," he said. "There's a deep dark wood and a lake and everything. Are there any monstrous creatures living in the murky depths of the lake?" 

"We have trout," said Aziraphale. "And ducks. And a pair of swans."

"Have any boats on the lake disappeared mysteriously?", asked Adam. "You never know what could be lurking underneath."

When they finally reached the great hall, Adam hopped out of the carriage and crossed his arms over his chest and took in the view of the place: the great big dome of the central atrium, the two smaller domes on the east and west wings, the pinnacles and the parapets along the roofline, the enormous wooden doors of the main entry with the stonework angels above it and the enormous pilasters surrounding it. The house was arranged so that the main entrance was located on the north side, on the inward side of the C-shaped building. Adam nodded in approval, then he turned in a semi-circle to take in the enormous stone patio that surrounded him on three sides, with its parapets and statues. Beyond the patio were many, many, windows and french doors, all topped with relief carvings in Bath stone. One set of French doors, on the east wing near where Aziraphale’s room was, were thrown wide open. On the other side of those doors, an old man was dozing in his bed while enjoying a fresh spring breeze. One storey above his room, some little faces peeked out of the nursery window at the tall boy who was surveying their home with an almost proprietary air. 

"What it needs," said Adam, "Is a moat."

"Ahhh," replied Aziraphale. "I hadn't thought to install one."

"Well it’s good that I came then,” said Adam. “You should put it right here. I can help you dig it. I'm very good with a shovel. A castle like this has to have a moat with eels and snakes and a great big crocodile."

"A crocodile?", said Aziraphale. And, as the boy started talking, he found himself standing there, frozen and irresolute. 

"If I had as much money as you,” said Adam, “I'd go to Egypt myself and find the biggest crocodile on the Nile river. I'd have six men with ropes to bring it in, and I'd transport it on a great big ship in an enormous tank all the way back to London. The tank has to have bars on the top to keep the crocodile from escaping, and you have to drop rabbits and stoats into the tank every hour on account of its insatiable appetite."

"That makes a certain sort of sense," said Aziraphale. He could feel his plans to take Adam to the servants' entrance sliding away from him. 

"Then I'd set the tank onto an enormous lurry and I would personally drive it all the way from London. We need a second lurry for the cages of stoats and rabbits. And then another carriage for the baggage and the crocodile trainer will sit on the back with his enormous whip. We'd be a parade. And everyone would line the roads to watch us pass by." 

"Well," said Aziraphale. He was feeling rather dizzy. "I don't have any crocodiles, but I do have a pair of ponies. Would you like to meet them?"

As they drove to the stables, Aziraphale considered that perhaps Adam might be better suited to the vigorous outdoor life of a stable boy, rather than being a hall boy who was stuck below stairs and only allowed outdoors to carry messages back and forth to the dairy and the stables. The stableman of a great house had a good salary and a good life, while not being constrained by the same rules of decorum that were expected of the indoor servants. 

Aziraphale’s stableman, Mr. Hales, gave Adam a tour of the animals and Aziraphale watched with bemused wonder as the boy chattered on as if he had ownership, not only of the stables, but of an entire army of explorers who brought him curious beasts. 

"A manticore," he explained to the old stableman, "Will need a double sized box. And strong iron chains attached to a collar around its neck."

Aziraphale found it impossible to explain to Mr. Hales that this boy was meant to be a servant. Adam was acting more like a nephew or guest of the house. And Aziraphale wasn't correcting his behaviour. Which was his own fault. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. So he went over to his own grey gelding, Ganymede, and petted him as he listened to Adam prattling to the stableman about fantastic beasts. 

"Shall we tack up Ganymede and one of the ponies, sir?", asked a groom. "So you can take your young guest riding?" 

Riding was a very good idea. Adam and Aziraphale rode in slow circles around the upper field, Aziraphale on his favorite gelding and Adam riding a mellow pony who was at least three years older than the fresh faced young groom that was leading her.

As they rode, Aziraphale kept trying, without success, to bring the topic of conversation around to Adam coming to work at the estate, but every conversation Aziraphale began ended in a fantastical realm that only Adam could fully understand, and so Aziraphale finally drifted into his own, slightly less fanciful, thoughts. 

Aziraphale tried to imagine a future life, with himself as the earl, where he lived in the great house with a pretty wife and well educated children. He might come down to the stables every day to see Adam, to watch him slowly grow into manhood. It might even be possible to talk to Adam for a few minutes here and there, when he wasn't working. Or perhaps Aziraphale might sneak him a book from the libraries every now and then. But the fantasy didn't work. Even as he formulated it in his mind, it went grey and flat. The imaginary wife and children seemed like paper cutouts and Adam was a full-color three-dimensional being that eclipsed them all entirely. Aziraphale pictured himself at a little picnic on the grounds of the estate, ignoring the dull and polite conversation of his wife and children in favor of trying to catch a glimpse of Adam as he drove by with a cart full of hay. 

And where would Crowley fit into this fantasy world? Would he be watching from the windows of Aziraphale's rooms when Adam led the ponies up to the house and Aziraphale's children tumbled out the front door with apples and carrots in their hands? Or would Aziaphale sneak books out of his library and down to the stables for Adam to read to Crowley in the tackroom while Crowley repaired saddles and harnesses? He would never accept the former position, and he’d resent Aziraphale for forcing him to choose the latter to be with his son. 

As they headed back to the stables, Adam said. "You're so lucky to have all this land and all this money to do whatever you want."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I'm very lucky." 

And he let Adam prattle on as they enjoyed a picnic in the gardens and then a two-hour journey back to Tadfield. 

When Adam hopped out of the carriage, he ran towards his mother to hug her, and she made a rapid curtsy towards Aziraphale before she wrapped her arms tightly around Adam and kissed his cheek. She gazed over her son’s shoulder towards Aziraphale and the gentle aristocrat saw nothing but fear and sadness in her face. All of these years of his charity and his kindliness and she was still afraid of him. He quickly distributed sweets to the three younger children who crowded around the door to his carriage. Then he nodded to Mr. and Mrs. Young. 

“Goodbye,” he said. “No change to the arrangement today. I’ll visit again in June.” And he saw Adam’s mother sag in relief as he drove off.

When he finally reached the doors to Empyrean Hall that evening, Aziraphale had spent a total of eight hours in his carriage. He needed to stretch his legs, so he took a slow walk around the fields nearest to the house. He watched the sunset from the back lawn and then sat on the stone wall of the turned-off fountain. As the darkness descended, a servant brought a lantern out to him. He sent it back inside. He didn't want the light to interrupt his view of the stars. He watched them wheel overhead for hours and finally he walked across the lawn and into the echoing halls of his lonely home. 

He went straight to Uncle Gabriel’s private study. These days his uncle was too ill to use any of his offices, except for when he asked Aziraphale to bring him something or another from them, and so Aziraphale carried all the keys to Gabriel’s desks and cabinets. 

Aziraphale unlocked the biggest desk drawer in the desk in the private study and pulled a metal box from the back. He carried the box all the way over to the big table in his uncle’s personal library and he unlocked it, took out the brittle and yellowed papers it contained, carefully unfolded them and then spread them around the table. He read each document very slowly, taking notes as he went. At last, he folded them up, put them back into the metal box, and carried the box to his bedroom. 

The next day, as his carriage pulled past the gatehouse bound for London, he opened his private journal and balanced it on the metal box in his lap. His last entry had been months earlier. He had written: ' _The necessity of begetting a son is now clear to me, but I still selfishly wish it were possible for me to have a family founded upon love.'_ Aziraphale studied those words. Then he pulled out a pencil and started sketching pictures of a cheerful boy riding a pony, reading a book, and play fighting with a wooden sword.

Six days later, he emerged from his lawyers’ office and into the bright light of a late spring day. Hidden in the breast pocket of his coat were the deeds to two houses and some ancient letters patent. He had just received confirmation from his lawyers that his plan could work. He would need to return to London in a few weeks to discuss certain details, and then again a few weeks after that to sign the first round of documents. It would upset virtually everyone he knew, but Aziraphale found that he didn’t care one whit about the opinion of anyone except for a certain semi-criminal cab driver. 

He turned his face to the north, so that he faced the general direction of Crowley’s London stable. “Hah!”, he said to the air. “I’ve outdone you in nefarious deeds today.” 

Then he walked several streets over until he came to a private library where he knew he could while away a few hours before his carriage picked him up. The owner of the library was happy to lend him writing supplies and so Aziraphale wrote:

  
  


_My Dearest,_

_I know you will find it hard to forgive me for starting this letter with such a familiar salutation, but it is still true that there is no one dearer to my heart than you. My life’s greatest sorrow is that there is no way for me for me to share with you all that I have in a way that you could accept and that the law would respect. I find that, without a loved one to share it with, my position is a burden to me._

_But it is not a burden I can lay down. As much as you urge me to simply abdicate my responsibilities, I have sure knowledge that my likely successor would instantly use his power to pursue his vendetta against me even unto my death. If you were in my orbit, your life would not be spared. After our deaths, my blameless relatives would be left destitute._

_In summary, I am trapped in a web of obligations, debts, and entailments. Expert solicitors have assured me that my affairs cannot be substantially rearranged until my death or until the day that my adult son and I jointly dissolve the estate._

_I am devising my escape. My plan will take ten years to come to fruition, by which point it will undoubtedly be too late for me to expect to be welcomed into your arms. I respect that I tried your patience sore in recent years and I hereby release you from any obligation to me. If you choose to leave our connection behind, know that it is my most fervent hope that you are able to find another love, perhaps with someone with whom you may make a public covenant._

_By our next meeting, in mid-summer in Tadfield, my plans will be set irrevocably into motion and I will reveal them to you. Though I feel that my decision is for the greater good, I recognize that when you understand what I have done, you may choose to never speak to me again. I will honour your decision because of the great esteem in which I hold you._

_Yours, First and Always,_

_A_

  
  


Aziraphale folded the letter and sealed it and wrote Crowley’s full name and the address of his stable.

‘Right,’ he said to himself. ‘I don’t dare send this to him until just before he sets out for Tadfield. He might try to oppose me, and my mind is fixed.’ He knew that Crowley was far more clever than he was and that his only advantage was in secrecy. 

Aziraphale tucked the sealed envelope into his breast pocket with all the rest of the precious papers. Then he sat at the front window of the library and watched the street traffic below. There was a certain lightness of spirit that came from taking decisive action. Aziraphale Fell would not live out his entire adult life in a trap created by his ancestors. He would, in just a bit over ten years’ time, become his own man. After the dissolution of the estate, he could sell off all his properties piecemeal. That would get him enough money to take care of all his obligations to his relatives and then have some left over to fund his own escape, perhaps to the continent. He might live a lonely life, but he could enjoy it with the clear conscience that came from knowing that his freedom had not come at the cost of the destruction of innocent lives. 

He would be forty three years old when he finally won his freedom. ‘Forty isn’t so old,’ he told himself. ‘Crowley is nearly forty. And he is still young enough to take a wife and start over.’ It made Aziraphale happy to think that, in just over ten years’ time, Crowley might find himself receiving enough money that he could extract himself from his criminal enterprises and live a fully legal life with his wife and children. Aziraphale might even hear about it second hand. In a way he’d be responsible for yet another happy family. That would make two families that he had helped to thrive. Not a bad record for a confirmed bachelor. 

  
  
  
  
  



	21. Falling Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the spring of 1815, Crowley discovers that starting a small business is not a good way to save a marriage. Aziraphale chooses fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter is rated E for Extraordinarily Cowardly Behaviour.

  
  
  


December 1814

Crowley was deeply in love. On the second anniversary of his marriage, he still wore his wedding ring on a gold chain around his neck except when he was at the supper club, when he wore it on the smallest finger of his left hand. 

Crowley wasn’t able to be with his husband for their wedding anniversary, because Aziraphale wouldn't be in London for another five days, but on that important day, he finalized his plans for their reunion and bought a special surprise. He could afford to do this because he had done a lot of little jobs for the Queen Mother and Duke Bottomly in the last few weeks. 

The secret to Crowley’s success in combining a career in carriage driving and smuggling was that the wealthy people who rented the big carriages that he drove did not pay attention to servants or anything they did. Basically, as long as the cab was comfortable and good smelling and the windows were clean and the curtains dust-free, they didn’t notice anything else about the carriage. There were all sorts of little compartments and shelves on Crowley’s carriage, including a little compartment underneath the bench he sat on. These were meant to be for luggage and for things the horses and driver might need on a long journey. The passengers didn’t look closely at what was carried; they had no idea how their luggage was fit onto the carriage or how the driver and horses were fed and watered and kept warm while they were visiting around the city. They never noticed that crates and sacks appeared and disappeared during the course of a day’s travels, or that the carriage sometimes took forty-five minutes to get from the front of the house where they were visiting to the mews one street over. 

The best errands were when Crowley could coordinate the drop off location for his goods to be in the same neighbourhood as his passengers were visiting. In the wealthy London neighbourhoods, housekeepers and butlers were always looking to find ways of saving money on household expenses. As their employers returned to their townhouses, the upper servants stocked up on supplies for the season. Fortunately, quite a few upper class families chose to return to London before the Fell family did. Which meant several weeks of good earning opportunities for Crowley before his husband returned. A ten minute detour to deliver a crate of tea or a bolt of silk could put ten shillings of profit into Crowley’s pocket. And some of those shillings were set aside for a nice reunion party for Crowley’s angel. 

For their reunion, Crowley had got them their favourite room: the one with the sturdy little bed with the just-the-right-height mattress. He was told that the room would be stacked with barrels of concentrated gin. But that was an advantage, in a way, because those barrels could serve as a table and chairs for a reunion meal. Crowley had obtained a bottle of wine and some fine cheeses as well as grapes and cake. He had even borrowed a shawl from a friend, to use as a tablecloth. He carried them all up to the hidden room in a big sack. 

When Crowley walked into the room, his angel looked hesitant and worried for a moment, and then his beautiful face lit up with pleasure. “Crowley,” he said, “I’ve missed you so very much!” 

The kiss was perfect. They never stopped kissing even as they stripped their clothes off. Their first round of intimacy was over all too quickly, but that was to be expected after so long apart. When it was done, they cleaned up and then they sat on the barrels, in their long shirts, to enjoy a light meal. 

Crowley poured the wine into their mugs with a flourish. When he tasted it, he was transported back to the days when he'd worked in Empyrean Hall. The vintage was very good, just as he'd been promised. Smooth, complex, good body, good finish. What a relief. Perfect wine for his perfect angel. 

But Aziraphale was frowning slightly as he sipped, and his eyes were sliding all over the place. 

"Good, yeah?", said Crowley. 

"Very," said Aziraphale. "Fit for a king."

" 'S only what you deserve. 'M gonna take care of you, you know. Always."

They talked and laughed, but there was a strain under it all. They went back to bed, and cuddled and touched and the awkwardness vanished as the drink made it easier to just let their bodies follow familiar patterns. Crowley happily made his lustful angel into dessert, and then they cuddled and touched for an hour, before Crowley put Aziraphale on his hands and knees so that he could do him the kindness that a husband should do.

The bed was at just the right height, and his angel spread his knees and pressed his face into the mattress, whimpering, making tiny noises that he knew wouldn’t escape the little room. And Crowley, standing on the floor behind him, worked him open with the fingers of one hand, while he soothed his needy lover with a hand rubbing his arse.

“Soon,” he whispered. “Soon my angel.”

After a few minutes, Aziraphale, always impatient, rose up to stand on his knees. He grabbed the little pot of that magic triple-filtered goose-fat based concoction that the Queen Mother’s family made in their kitchen, then he reached behind himself and slathered the stuff on Crowley’s cock, stroking him into rock-hardness before falling back onto his own elbows and tilting his hips up. Normally, at this point, he would look back over his shoulder, but today he just laid his face on the bed and closed his eyes. 

“Crowley,” he said. “Please.”

And so Crowley pressed his cock against him. Perfect round arse, plumper than ever, and white as snow. Hole a little too tight, still. Which was unusual. It was probably the strain of being alone for all those months. The angel was whimpering and bearing down, trying to wear out his muscles so they’d give way, and Crowley made little shushing noises and made tiny circling motions with his hips to slowly work him open until he could slide all the way inside. When he finally bottomed out, the angel sighed with pleasure. 

“Oh thank God,” said Aziraphale. 

“Impatient, greedy thing,” said Crowley. “Settle down.” He smoothed his hand over his beloved’s back, admiring the soft broad shoulders, and running his hand down until he felt the fine white hairs in the triangle of his lower back. Then he ran his hand over a plump perfect arse, which was just a bit rounder than it ever had been before. Aziraphale was full grown at last, and he’d filled out so beautifully. It was unreal that such an ethereal creature would give himself to a scarred, damaged, wreck of a man. But it didn’t matter how it had happened, what mattered that this was real, as real as the pearl and diamond ring that was hanging around his neck, and Crowley was never letting his angel go. This beautiful creature was all his to use, to devour, to worship, to care for. 

Crowley bent his head down and rested his forehead on his angel’s back, inhaling the sweet clean smell of bergamot and sandalwood. “Mine,” he said. “My treasure.” His angel was shaking and whimpering with need. The thing he needed was Crowley’s cock, and Crowley stood hard and ready to deliver. He alone had the power to make his angel happy. He had provided wine and cheese and now he was doing his matrimonial duty. At this very moment there was no happier man than he. 

Crowley was getting lost in his admirations, and it made his angel impatient. Aziraphale pushed his hips back and started to beg. He didn’t look back to meet Crowley’s eyes, but, still, he begged so prettily. Filthy words, and Crowley’s name over and over again. And so Crowley rocked into him, first shallow and barely moving, then slow and deep, hitting all the good spots and setting a careful pace that wouldn’t take him over his own edge despite the soft wonderful heat of his beloved. “Like this, my angel?”, he said.”Yes? Nice and slow. Hush, I’ve got you. As long as you wish.” 

And then Crowley fell in a trance. Time stretched on endlessly as he thrust into the warmth. Each time he slid home, his angel rewarded him with little whimpers and gasps. The minutes stretched on and on, and, when his own legs grew tired, Crowley pulled out and put his angel on his back against the pillows on the bed. He crawled over him and lifted one of the angel’s legs onto his own shoulder. Then he slid inside and rocked him slowly, nuzzling his neck and covering him with kisses and receiving the angel’s words of adoration in return. The angel seemed overwhelmed. He kept his pretty eyes closed the whole time. 

How long did it last? With the angel, it could go on for an hour. Crowley had fucked a dozen men before he’d met his angel, but he’d never met one who wanted to be worshiped for this long. As long as he fucked slow and sweet, his angel would fill his ears with the sound of his own name and with whispered commands: “there”, “more”, “harder”. The greedy angel always said that he wanted it fast and hard, but he couldn’t take such intensity for more than five minutes or so without getting hurt, and so that pleasure had to be saved for the end. It was up to Crowley to be the patient one, to forebear, to wait, to ignore the begging and pleading, and to watch his beloved’s face to know when it was time. And then: 

“Let’s turn you over,” said Crowley. He laid the angel on his belly on the bed and he laid himself down on top. He laced their fingers together and fucked him into the bed, hard. He whispered curses into his angel’s ear and his angel answered back with blasphemous words and streams of curses and Crowley’s name over and over. Then the angel bit the pillow and his whole body clenched and shook like a machine that had gone unbalanced and was tearing itself apart. 

There was no other man who could spill like that. On and on, and clenching down on Crowley’s cock so tightly. Wave after wave of it. Rich nearly painful pleasure of being trapped inside, of feeling the trembling creature falling apart on his cock. “Angel,” cried Crowley. “My perfect angel.” 

Aziraphale answered with inarticulate panting. He thumped the bed with his fist. Then he went completely limp, and Crowley, unwilling to cause him the least bit of pain, pulled out and used the cleft of his arse and a glob of grease to take himself to the finish. 

Then it was over. There was never enough time. Crowley allowed himself five minutes of rest and then he rolled out of bed and went to the basin and got the cloth and cleaned all the evidence of matrimonial pleasures off of the body of his beloved. Then he coaxed him into sitting up, (a rag underneath him protecting the sheets), and he fed him some more wine and some food. The church bells outside the room tolled four. It was dark already, and they only had two candles in the room. Crowley brought Aziraphale his shirt and his stockings and dressed his limp body. 

Aziraphale started to cry. He bowed his head and turned his face away. “I don’t deserve you,” he said. 

Crowley was kneeling at his angel’s feet, helping him into his stockings. He stood up on his knees and took his lover’s tear stained cheeks into his hands. “Never say that,” he said. “Whatever they said to you, it isn’t true. Once I get you away from them, you’ll know how wonderful you are. I’ll make you feel it. Everything is coming together with our plans. You’ll see. I’ll take care of you and then you’ll never cry again.” His angel shuddered and said nothing, and Crowley took him into his arms and held him tight. 

*** 

Crowley had been worried about how his angel had behaved at their reunion, but, fortunately, Aziraphale told him what had been the matter the next time they met:

"Was it stolen?"

"Eh?", said Crowley. 

"The wine. Last time. Did you steal it?"

"I didn't steal it," Crowley said. But he accidentally emphasized the wrong word in the sentence.

"Did someone else steal it?"

"Didn't ask," said Crowley. The price had been a quarter of what the bottle should have sold for.

"You can't do this," said Aziraphale. "I was losing my mind for the last six months thinking of all the ways you could be caught at one thing or another. And it's breaking me."

“No need to worry angel,” said Crowley. “That part of my life is ending. I have a legitimate business now.” 

***

Aziraphale felt miserable. He’d asked about the wine because he couldn’t bring himself to confess what he’d done, and there was Crowley, impossibly happy, pulling some papers out of his coat.

“I was going to wait until after we exchanged favours,” Crowley said. “But here. Look. What do you think?” 

He spread a paper out on the bed. It was a sketch of a livery uniform, all coloured in black and red. Crowley looked so happy about it, so Aziraphale smiled. 

“It’s really quite . . . unusual,” said Aziraphale. 

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “A distinctive livery is important. It’s how we’ll popularize our idea. Let me show you the latest sketch of the gig. This is exactly what it’s going to look like.” 

"Well," said Aziraphale. “It’s certainly unique.” 

"That's the very word, angel! Unique. No one else in London is driving anything like this. I'll be the very first."

" _You'll_ be driving it? From the . . . the back?"

"Of course," said Crowley. "Like I said in my letters. It’s an unusual way to drive, so I need to be the example. I'll wear the distinctive livery. That's how we'll popularise the idea."

"We,” said Aziraphale. He tried to sound confident. 

"Our business partnership, angel. You can help me secure the patents and get loans and whatnot. Your name will open doors for us. You'll do the books, and I will do the driving. At least at first, and then, as we expand, it will be my job to oversee the entire fleet."

"It's . . . well, I’m not really sure I quite know how to begin," said Aziraphale. 

“No worries, angel,” said Crowley. “Like I said in my letters, it will be a month at least before we’re ready to launch the business, and it will be small at first, just the one gig, so I’ll take care of everything to start. But you’re clever. You’ll catch on.”

“Ahem,” said Aziraphale. “I um--”

“Just perfect, isn’t it? No more illegal jobs for me, and you and I will be partners, so we can spend all day together and no one will think anything of it. It’s even a little romantic. At lunch time, we can lock the office door, draw the curtains and have a quick--”

“It’s still a lot to take in,” said Aziraphale.

“But you’ve had months to think about it, angel,” said Crowley. “And we’re underway. Bentley is arriving at the stables this week.”

“Bentley?”

“My mare,” said Crowley. “I can’t wait to show her to you. She’s incredible.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, “I’m sure I’ll love your Bentley.”

***

“Not this week I’m afraid,” said Crowley. He seemed to be in a mania. He was talking very fast and nodding rapidly. “She needs to settle down a bit before she’s ready to meet you. The gig is here, though. So beautiful and stylish. Everyone says they’ve never seen anything like it. It’s the talk of the whole stable-yard. And Bentley will come along.”

“Perhaps,” said Azriaphale, “She isn’t the right horse?”

“Oh no,” said Crowley. “She’s exactly perfect. She’s going to be a legend.”

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” said Aziraphale.

"Of course I do," said Crowley, “I need to make a future for us."

"But we have a future. The estate."

"Yes, but that future might not come for two decades. What am I supposed to do in the meanwhile? Waste my talents? I have had an inspiration, Aziraphale. I can't just let that pass. Someone else will invent it if I don't get there first. And this will be so much more profitable than the smuggling is."

“But," said Aziraphale, "It seems dangerous."

“Naw,” said Crowley. And he took Aziraphale’s hands and looked into his eyes. "I know horses,” he said. “And the first one needs to be fast and impressive, because it will generate excitement in our customers. Trust me.” And then he smiled with unimaginable confidence. “Oh angel, you have no idea. London is just the beginning. We'll deploy them in Manchester and Leeds and Birmingham. Then on to Paris and Rome and New York City. This is our big chance to build our own fortune, separate from your family."

"Yes, but--" said Aziraphale.

“And to think, angel, I never would have done this without you to inspire me. I can change the world if you are by my side.”

And what could Aziraphale say to that? So he searched his heart and he found something he could say that was true. “I love you,” he said. “And I think you’re brilliant. And I know that if anyone is going to invent the transportation of the future, it will be someone just like you.”

"You mean that, angel?"

"Every word of it. Now please come to bed while we still have time to enjoy ourselves."

It was on the carriage ride home to Empyrean Hall, as he was remembering the exact phrases that Crowley had used in their conversation that Aziraphale realized the truth. ‘Oh my Lord,’ he thought. ‘He’s still doing the smuggling.’

***

Aziraphale stood on the side of a path in Hyde Park and waited. He’d never met Crowley out in the open before, but there was no other way to do it, and Hyde Park was a short walk from his house, and so this was the designated meeting place. He had already made a mental list of compliments that he could give when he finally saw the thing that he had agreed to help fund. 

‘It’s just a hobby,’ he said to himself. ‘Every man needs to feel a sense of accomplishment about something and this is his way of passing the time until we can live together. He’ll probably drive it ‘round the estate when he joins me there. It will just be an odd character trait. In a valet.’ 

When it burst out of the woods, he wasn’t even sure what he was seeing. There was just an impression of blackness and immense speed. And then it went sailing past and he heard Crowley’s voice in the distance:

“GEEEEEEEE!!!!!” 

Then it spun around, faster than should be possible, and pulled up in front of him. It was a black gig with a black awning and red-spoked wheels. It had a cushioned chair upholstered in red leather with a cushioned back and metal arm rests on the side. Aziraphale could see this very plainly because the seat was empty and the only thing that blocked his view of it were the reins, which were threaded over the top of the awning and attached to the terrifying beast at the front of the whole contraption. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” said Crowley. “She’s got the wind up her tail this morning. She’ll be alright after we’ve given her a little run round the park.” 

“We?!”, said Aziraphale. The black mare’s head was lowered because he was holding her back, and her short cropped tail was twitching back and forth. Her ears were straight up and she was moving her head from side to side. Her knees were blotchy with the grey and white scars that advertised her as an unsafe animal. Her withers were also scarred, just behind the collar. Aziraphale drew away from her instinctively. 

Crowley was standing on the back of the carriage, on top of a thick platform that was attached behind the seat. He was wearing a black uniform with two rows of red buttons and a black top hat with a red band. His breeches, which peeked out from underneath the coat, were bright red, and so were his stockings, so it almost looked like he was wearing red trousers. To Aziraphale, he looked like he’d driven straight out of Hell. 

“Well, hop in,” said Crowley. 

“Can you control her?” 

“ ‘Course I’m controlling her,” said Crowley. “Otherwise she’d be at Buckingham Palace by now.” The mare danced from foot to foot, and the carriage moved from side to side with her. “Get in, angel!”

Against his better judgement, Aziraphale climbed up and into the gig.

He was barely even seated when they took off at a tremendous speed. Aziraphale gripped the armrests on both sides of the double-wide seat while his feet scrabbled for purchase against the dashboard. He finally wedged them against the dashboard as if he could push himself away from the oncoming scenery. They had to be doing above fifteen miles per hour. Could it be twenty? He didn’t know. People were leaping out of their way. Everything was whipping by so fast, but whenever Aziraphale closed his eyes he got dizzier. If it weren’t for the cold January air blasting his face, he would have surely vomited. 

By the time they’d made one circuit of Hyde park, Aziraphale’s lips were chapped, his cheeks raw, and the demonic horse showed no signs of slowing down. His own heart was pounding so hard that he could feel it. At several points, he felt one wheel or the other leave the ground and then thump back down to earth. He was sure that the mare would stumble, as she obviously had in the past, and overturn them. He couldn’t signal Crowley to slow down because the leather sides of the gig’s awning surrounded him in back, on top, and on both sides, and his frenzied shouts were carried away on the wind.

Finally, somewhere in the wood, they slowed down and Aziraphale could make his voice heard. 

“Can we stop here?”

Crowley pulled the mare up and then there was a jerking motion, which let Aziraphale know that the brake had been thrown. The mare turned her black head and Aziraphale could see that clouds of steam were rising from her great round nostrils. He regained control of his shaking limbs, but before he could marshall them to help him to climb out of the terrifying contraption, Crowley appeared beside him. He was standing on the ground, grinning from ear to ear and stroking the side of the black hell-beast. 

“Isn’t my Bentley grand?”, he said. “Lot of life in her, right? Can’t believe the price I got.”

“But her knees!”, sputtered Aziraphale.

“Little blacking will take of that,” said Crowley. 

“Not the cosmetics!”, cried Aziraphale. “She’s clearly unsafe! She’ll lose her footing and get you killed.” 

“Idiot who had her before me overloaded her on a muddy hill,” said Crowley. “Not her fault at all. So that’s both of us been scarred by bad masters. We understand each other, Bentley and I,” He stroked her neck and then pulled a bit of carrot out of his pocket and fed it to her. “Now that she’s calmed down a bit, I want to show you what she can do in the streets.”

“In the . . . “

“I’ll climb in beside you so we can talk,” said Crowley. Then he climbed into the carriage, stood on the dashboard, and started pulling the reins through the metal rings on top of the awning. Once he’d freed them, he did some kind of complicated knot to shorten each of them. When he sat down in the seat and looked at Aziraphale, his eyes were dancing with delight. 

Before Aziraphale could think of a way to object, Crowley released the brake and they were off again, nearly as fast as before. They went through the park again and pulled into traffic at Hyde Park corner. Crowley swerved them around an oncoming vehicle, and then they wove around carts and carriages all the way up the street. Aziraphale didn’t dare distract either driver or horse, and so he suppressed all of his noises of terror, but he plastered one hand to the roof of the awning and used the other to grip the cold metal armrest so hard that it felt like his hand was burning. When they swung onto the Mall and there was, at last, a relatively uncrowded straightaway, he reflexively put his hand on Crowley’s knee to calm himself down. 

“What do you think?”, said Crowley. “I think we hit eight or nine miles per hour on Piccadilly and the rest of the traffic was doing four at best.”

“Uhhhhmmmhhh,” said Aziraphale. Then looked down, saw where his hand was, and yelped. He put his hand on his heart instead. 

Crowley was looking at him and smiling. 

“Eyes on the road!”, said Aziraphale. “The road!”

“Bentley’s smart, hardly needs me to tell her how to go around obstacles,” said Crowley. “Well?”

“It’s . . .” Terrifying was the word that sprung to mind. “Fast,” said Aziraphale. “Very.”

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “Bentley and I are the fastest transportation in the entire city of London. No matter the time of day or the traffic conditions, we will get our customers through at top speed. And at a third of the price of a traditional carriage.”

***

They had been back together for eight weeks and the list of things Aziraphale hadn’t told his husband had only grown. Not least of them, of course, was his own infidelity, which made him feel so awful inside and which made it impossible for him to make any complaint about the molly house. Even after Crowley confessed that he was still going there twice a week.

“But it’s just for the company, angel,” he said. “I’m not going to bring you a pox or anything. They don’t even let anyone into the back parlour unless they actually commit an act of sodomy on the first night. Real sodomy. Hand work doesn’t count, because they go by what the law says, so everyone’s equally culpable. That keeps the spies out. And me not being allowed in the parlour means that, in case of a raid, I’ve got deniability. ‘Didn’t see anything, officer, no idea what they get up to in there, could be a game of cards for all I know.’ “

Aziraphale knew it wouldn't matter to the constables which part of the building a costumed man was caught in. It certainly wouldn't matter to the mobs of angry women who would surround the wagon of prisoners and pelt them with mud and offal as they were taken in. If the wrong crowd gathered, or even if the constable simply felt like letting it happen, men accused of sodomy could die before they even reached the gaol. But what could he say, exactly, without being a massive hypocrite? ‘Sorry, my dear, even though I’ve been watching other men breaking lances for years in my club, your club is the one that’s actually in danger of being raided, and therefore you have to sit at home alone every night. And by the way, last autumn I spent a week letting strangers suck my prick every night.’ So, when Crowley blithely explained why he wasn’t worried about the constables, Aziraphale just sat there and felt a bit queasy. 

In the last week of February, Aziraphale arrived home from his visit with his husband, and, for the first time ever, he locked himself in his room and cried. The constant terror of it all was just so overwhelming, and there was no one he could talk to about it. Mrs. Potts was back at Empyrean Hall, and, though she had assured him that some of the London servants liked him, none of them could be trusted to know about his secret marriage. And the men at his social club would only greet the news of his troubles with contempt and ridicule. They’d long advised him to break it off with Crowley. 

The money problem didn’t make it all easier either. Crowley had been overly optimistic about Bentley’s training schedule and about how easy it would be to persuade customers to try out his crazy invention. But his loan and stable fees still needed paying. Aziraphale covered the loan, at four and a half pounds a month, despite the fact that the rapid disappearance of his recently expanded allowance funds was making his family suspicious about his activities. The rest of the money that Crowley needed to pay to keep himself and his horse fed and sheltered came from somewhere else, and whenever Aziraphale asked about it, they got into a row that ended with Crowley divulging absolutely nothing and Aziraphale suspecting the worst. 

The strain of all the lies and all the fighting got so very bad that, in mid-March, Aziraphale’s prick finally told the tale that his words wouldn’t. 

“Did I do something wrong?”, said Crowley. “Usually you love this.”

“It’s nothing,” said Aziraphale. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. And when Crowley reached up to pull him into his arms and comfort him, Aziraphale pushed him away and said everything that he had left unsaid for the past six months. 

“I hate the gig,” he said. “It terrifies me.”

“But it’s our business.”

“It’s your business,” said Aziraphale. “I never wanted to do it.”

“But you said yes, I have the letters from you.” Crowley’s voice was shaking. “I thought we agreed.”

Aziraphale shook his head. Every night he had dreams of Crowley flipping his gig over, landing in the street, and having his head trod on by a horse. 

Crowley was clearly watching the emotions flicker across Aziraphale’s face and he responded to what he saw by running his fingers through his own hair and massaging his forehead with the heels of hands. Finally, he threw his hands out in an expansive gesture of frustration. 

“If you’re so afraid of it, why didn’t you just say no at the beginning?”

“I couldn’t,” said Aziraphale. And then he confessed his big sin. It was awful. It took five whole minutes for all the words to come to stammering out. And he was sobbing by the end. Which didn’t stop Crowley from yelling. His hands were flailing in the air so wildly that Aziraphale cringed in expectation of being struck. But Crowley didn’t land a single blow. 

“Unbelievable,” said Crowley. “After all that you put me through over serving ale at my supper club, and you’re trotting around the countryside having live sausage for supper in every great house you visit!”

“It was only the one week.”

“I’m leaving,” said Crowley. “I’m too angry to deal with you right now. I’m going to my supper club tonight and I’m going to do whatever the Hell I want. And I’m not going to tell you about any of it. See you next week!” 

The next week was even worse. When Crowley came into the little rented room, he was limping. “Some fool crashed into me in Piccadilly Circus,” he said. 

Crowley hadn’t been thrown from the gig because of the leather belts that secured him to the post at the back of the platform, but one of his legs had slipped off the platform, and he had a greenish bruise all the way up the inside of it. He’d also bruised a testicle. Which gave them both a ready excuse for why they made no attempt at any act of love. Aziraphale didn’t even bother to get undressed at all, though he made Crowley strip off all his clothes so that he could catalogue all of the injuries. In addition to the leg and groin injuries, he found two parallel bruises on his husband’s belly and ribs where the belts had caught him, and scabbed-over scrapes up the inside of his left forearm. As they sat on the bed and talked about bent axles and repair costs and empty bank accounts, Aziraphale silently berated himself for being the cause of his husband’s distracted driving. 

He was staring off at the wall, lost in thought, when a warm hand touched his cheek: “ ‘S going to be alright,” said Crowley. “It’s just a hard patch we’re having. Every marriage has them. We love each other. And love is stronger than any little misfortune.” 

“I will always love you,” said Aziraphale. And it was absolutely true. But it was the first time he had ever said those words and had them feel so painful. 

Two weeks later, Aziraphale felt the inevitability of what was going to have to happen. But he wanted one last beautiful afternoon and so he created it. He sucked his husband’s prick in the most beautifully slow way that he could and then he rode the dragon upon St. George. As he took his pleasure, he looked down upon his brilliant, untamable, dare-devil husband and he let himself feel every bit of how much he loved him so that when his cock spilled, so did his eyes. And afterwards, as they were getting dressed, he smiled and lied to Crowley for the very last time:

“Next week,” said Aziraphale, “Meet me in St. James’ Park by the water, on the south side. I want to see how the repairs went.”

  
  


***

  
  


April 15, 1815

  
  


When Crowley arrived at St. James’ Park, Aziraphale climbed right into the gig without hesitation. 

“Don’t drive,” said Aziraphale. “Can we sit here a minute?”

Crowley shrugged. “Should feed her anyway,” he said, and he got out and got the nose bag and set Bentley up to have a bit of luncheon. Then he climbed into the gig.

“This is for you,” said Aziraphale. And he handed over a bag of coins. “To go towards the repair costs. I know you had to do it on credit.” 

“Did you want to see how well the repair went?”, said Crowley, “I’ll bet you can’t even guess which one was the damaged wheel.”

All he got in response was a sad smile. He had a strange premonition. He could see that Aziraphale wasn’t here to talk about the repair. So he made a stab at a bigger conversation.

“It’s going to get better,” said Crowley. “It’s going to start to be profitable soon, and then everything will change for us.”

But Aziraphale just shook his head. He handed Crowley a piece of paper. Crowley unfolded it. There were some numbers and a long word that he knew would take a while to sound out. 

“What’s this?”, said Crowley.

“It’s the address,” said Aziraphale. “For my social club. In case you ever need to use it to get yourself out of trouble.”

Crowley didn’t understand, but he tucked the piece of paper into his coat pocket as he tried to make sense of what was happening. “Really?,” he said. “But you said you’d never-- “ And then his heart started to beat a little faster, because it understood what his mind was refusing to comprehend. “Why are you doing this now?”, he asked. The small, sad smile he received in return made his stomach sink. “No,” Crowley said. “Not here, not with all these people around.”

“It’s not fair for me to ask you to be someone that you can’t be,” said Aziraphale. “You’ll never be content with the kind of life I can offer you, and I can’t live every day in fear of losing you. It isn’t right for me to keep you when there’s probably someone else out there who can share the kind of life that you need to live to be happy. So I’m setting you free.”

“Setting me . . . No,” said Crowley. There were fashionably dressed people walking within feet of the gig. “We need to talk in private. You need to give me a chance to talk freely.”

Aziraphale shook his head. 

“I can sell the gig,” said Crowley. “I’ll get back half of what I paid. That will take care of the balance on the loan. And Bentley can become a coach horse; she can adjust to pulling in tandem again.”

“No, she can’t,” said Aziraphale. “That’s a lie and you know it.” 

Aziraphale smiled the saddest smile that Crowley had ever seen. “You should sell your ring,” he said. “That will put a little money into your bank account, in case of another crash.”

“No,” said Crowley. “Please don’t do this. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Talk to me. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Anything you want.” But Aziraphale shook his head softly. Crowley felt something draining away from his body. Time seemed to move too slowly. Somewhere, far underneath him, Crowley felt the entire Earth tremble and shake. Years later, when an educated man told him of the great volcanic eruption that had happened on the other side of the world on this day, he would be sure that it had happened at that very moment that Aziraphale started to climb down out of the gig for the last time. 

“Wait!”, said Crowley. He tore off his top hat and unbuttoned his coat and shirt, heedless of who was watching. He pulled the wedding ring off from around his neck, and he held it out, together with the purse of coins. “It was never about your money. I won’t let you satisfy your conscience by letting yourself think that for even a moment.” 

“If you’re sure,” said Aziraphale, and he held out his hands. He looked to be on the point of tears, but Crowley gave him no quarter. 

“You coward,” Crowley said. “I hope every piece of property you own burns to the ground and that you die alone.” 

And Aziraphale didn’t answer at all. He just sighed, closed his hand around the ring and the purse, then stepped into the crowd and melted away. 

  
  
  
  
  



	22. I Get By With A Little Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The molly house gang comfort Crowley in their own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E for Extremely Broken Crowley
> 
> CW: Group sex, flashback to former abuse. Summary at end.

Crowley got through the rest of the day in a daze. People hailed him and he pretended to drive, but, really, Bentley did all the work exactly the way she wanted. Her way was fast. He nearly ran over a group of pedestrians in the park. They cursed at him, but he could barely hear them over the buzzing sound in his ears. Divorced. Ended. No more husband. Who was Anthony Crowley anymore? 

Washing his horse down at the end of the day should have been a mechanical matter. But Bentley was a clever mare. She sensed his lack of attention and she took full advantage of it. She fidgetted and pranced in her stall and then deliberately kicked over the bucket of water. He moved it to a new location and then she danced sideways and got it again. When he left her side for the second time to refill the bucket, she untied the quick-release knot on her leadrope and made it halfway to the yard before one of the other men caught her. Somebody said something about him having bought more horse than he could handle. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he didn’t want to go out for a fourth pail, he’d have dumped the third one on that man’s head. As it was, it took twice as long as it should to get Bentley settled for the night. 

When he arrived at the back door of the Two Cocks, Crowley feared that he might collapse. Entering the kitchen from the cool of the night was like walking into a solid wall of heat and moisture. His vision started to constrict; if it weren't for how well he knew the room, he'd have fallen into something. As it was, he jostled one of the Queen Mother's daughters in a fairly improper and rude way. He heard her say something to him, but he couldn't quite figure out what the words were. She didn’t curse at him, was all he comprehended of it. 

When he reached his little stool in the corner, something warm and hard was pressed into his hands. A bowl. The heat of it hurt. He could tell it wasn't really as hot as his fingers were screaming that it was, but that it was the pain of them warming up after being outside. He looked down at his fingers. Normally, he'd have already taken his wedding ring off its chain and put it on the smallest finger of his left hand. He wriggled that finger against the warm bowl. No clinking sound. He held onto the bowl until his fingers were completely warmed. There was a pain in his stomach. Hunger, and the nausea of having had hunger all day, and also a clenching feeling that reached all the way up from his stomach to the back of his throat. 

He picked up the spoon and scooped up some of the brown stew and put it into his mouth, where the stuff just sat on his tongue. He tasted salt and the sour-richness of bone broth. His throat wouldn't open for him to swallow. He put the spoon back in the bowl and studied the dark stew. He moved his littlest finger, the empty ringless one. He bobbed his head a little to see if it might open his throat to swallow. A little stew ran down his throat. It only made his stomach clench more violently. He closed his eyes to concentrate on swallowing. He didn't want to vomit in the kitchen when the women were cooking. But swallowing didn't work. 

He stood up and set the bowl down on the corner of the big table in the center of the kitchen. His mouth was still full of stew. The food was drying now; hard lumps of vegetable and meat were pressing up onto his palate. He couldn't spit it out and waste the food. Ale was the solution. There were three dozen mugs hanging on pegs along the wall behind him. He turned around and tried to take one down. He bashed the mugs together, setting off a chain reaction of swinging earthen mugs all clinking each other. Once he had got one of them down, he stumbled past the working women without bumping into anyone, and made it to the barrel. He turned the spigot on and then, right away, turned it back off. He was so afraid he'd overfill his mug and spill the ale on the floor that he only filled his mug a quarter of the way. 

The drink was good. It worked. He could swallow it. When he finished it, he was still divorced. His husband had still left him to face the rest of his life alone. But his mouth wasn't full of dry meat and vegetables. He put the mug down somewhere and wandered toward the stairs. Two flights of narrow stairs. That was life without Aziraphale: one treacherous creaky step after another. Up and up and up to a bedroom on the second floor. There was a crate under a bed. The key around his neck unlocked it. There was no gold chain around his neck. There was no ring on the trembling fingers that unlatched the hasp and pulled the crate open. 

Breeches and livery coat. So many buttons all the way up. No ring, but the fingers worked without it. The ring was gold. It had been. Real gold with pearl and diamond. What it would have been worth sold wasn't something to be thought of. Crowley would have kept it to his grave and been buried with it. Sell his wedding ring? How could Aziraphale have even thought to suggest such a thing? How had he grown so cold and unfeeling? How long had it been that way and Crowley hadn't known? How long had he been an utter fool for? How long had the love in his marriage been one-sided? 

The powdered wig was last. Crowley adjusted it by feel before looking in a glass to verify that it was on straight. The wig powder was in its own little box. He held a little mask to shield his face from the powder and gave the rubber bladder three squeezes. Grey powder. Grey wig. His own hair was fiery red. Not an attractive color, but Aziraphale hadn't minded. Crowley looked in the glass as he dusted excess powder off his face and shoulders. His scar had turned silver over the years. The grey in the wig emphasized it. Unmistakable scar made him too ugly to serve at any table other than the Queen Mother's. Would anyone else ever touch his ugly face again? How had he had the miracle of being loved and let it slip away? 

He packed up his supplies and packed them back into the crate. As he was bent over to push it under the bed, someone grabbed him around the waist and pressed their hips against his backside. There was no hard cock. No threat or promise, just a joke. But he stiffened and flinched and felt his hands clench to throw a punch. 

"Constance? What's wrong?" The voice had no feminine affectations. Just a warm tenor quality. He turned around to see Lady Windward. But Lady Windward dressed as some kind of a clerk in an ordinary dark brown tailcoat and breeches. Crowley's best guess had always been that Lady Windward worked in the customs house; it would explain why Windward was always whispering with the Queen Mother about various imports. But he generally chose not to think about it. The less Crowley knew about the details of how the other parts of the Queen Mother's illegal businesses worked, the better. 

"Constance?", said Windward. "You look pale." 

Crowley nodded. He held up his empty hand. 

"Your ring,” said Windward.

He nodded. "She left me. This afternoon," he said. "Told me it's over and there's nothing I can do. Nothing. She doesn't want me."

"Oh no," said Windward. 

Crowley nodded. 

"And she took the ring back?", said Windward. "That's wrong. She should have let you keep it. She's got plenty of money of her own, doesn't she?"

"She offered," said Crowley. "Told me to sell it. But I gave it back. It was her grandmother's. It should stay in her family."

Windward threw open his arms. It was strange to see someone dressed as a man make a gesture like that, so open and loving. Crowley wondered if this was what it might be like to have a brother. He let himself be wrapped up and held. Windward was not a very physically imposing man. He was smaller than Crowley and had a slight build. But his arms were firm around Crowley's back and he squeezed with just the right amount of strength. When he let go at last, he met Crowley's eyes with his own light brown ones.

"Let me take care of you tonight?", said Windward. "After supper?"

Crowley nodded, not thinking about exactly what he was agreeing to, but just trying to acknowledge his friend’s kind sentiments. 

Supper was a blur. Crowley nearly dropped the heavy trays a few times. Fortunately, his serving instincts were built into him so deeply that he could serve a dinner without having to do any thinking: fill the beverage containers (be they cut crystal or earthenware mugs) with fresh drink when they were set down. Offer the food on the left, remove on the right. Keep the table under constant surveillance. Someone aimed a joke at him, and it took him three tries to realize what was meant by it. After the first fifteen minutes, nobody slapped his backside anymore, and the complicated jokes stopped being addressed towards him, so that he could concentrate on serving the food. 

After the meal, the ladies passed through and he started to clear the table. Bottomly grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him aside. 

"Is it true?", he said. 

Crowley nodded. 

"I'm so sorry," said Bottomly. "She's a fool. You are good and decent and rare and she'll realize someday what she's lost."

Crowley sat with the men who were dressed as men. He answered their questions mechanically and accepted their condolences. Then he sat and stared at the wall while they talked about other things. 

The door of the parlour opened, and Lady Windward emerged. She shut the door behind her and crossed over to where the men were sitting at the table. Windward looked a bit disheveled. Her bonnet was off to reveal narrow brown sideburns curved fashionably along her cheekbones. Her short wavy brown hair had been crushed flat by her discarded bonnet. The blue satin jacket that normally camouflaged her lack of bosom was gone. She was only wearing a lacy white dress that clung to her narrow frame. Her fingers were curled under subtly to hide the ink stains from her profession but Crowley could still see the blob of black that was on the side of her thumb. 

"I'm taking her into the parlour tonight," Windward said to Bottomly. "Queen Mother agreed."

Crowley shook his head. "It's too soon," he said. "I can't. I won't be able to."

Windward slid her arms around his waist and pulled him against her. She had a slim body. It wasn't at all like being held in Aziraphale's soft strong arms. 

"I still need to finish cleaning up out here," said Crowley.

Bottomly waved him off. "We've got it, lass. You deserve a break from your work."

As Windward pulled him backward toward the parlour, Crowley protested again. "I don't want to make everyone gloomy," he said. 

Windward spun around him so they were facing each other. She took both of his hands in both of hers and she squeezed them. "Nobody expects anything of you. You don't have to prove anything tonight. Just enjoy yourself."

His voice cracked. "How?", he said. But it was too late. Windward opened the door and pulled him in. 

The smell of the room was overpowering. It was male and it was sex and these men were not hygenic and perfumed like Aziraphale. The air was thick with a haze of tobacco smoke and sweat. The sound of the room was overlapping layers of laughter and moans and drunken songs. There were nearly thirty men in the room and they were sprawled out over the furniture in every way imaginable and in some ways that Crowley had never before imagined. Some, like the Queen Mother, were fully dressed and engaged in conversation, while others were naked. One young fellow, who Crowley knew only as Miss Crier, was laying on a chaise completely nude, legs akimbo and clearly either too freshly debauched or too drunk to move. It was probably both. 

Windward led Crowley over to the Queen Mother. The Queen took Windward's hands and tugged them so that she went down to her knees in front of her. Then she put a hand on the side of Windward's face and bent forward to whisper in her ear. Windward nodded and stood up, then the Queen Mother took Crowley's hands, but he didn't let her pull him to his knees. He leaned over to hear her voice in his ear. 

"Poor love," said the Queen Mother. "I hope that you let the girls take care of you tonight."

Crowley couldn't find the words. He was angry. He wanted to say 'Are you all mad? I just lost my one true love today. I'm not in the mood to fuck. I could barely lift a spoon to eat my supper. I can't swallow food, let alone a prick. None of you can possibly understand how I feel. And damn you all for thinking that this meaningless and filthy orgy is going to distract me from the fact that my husband left me this afternoon and that the rest of my life is destined to be an empty wasteland.'

He was silent, but the Queen Mother nodded at him as if he'd just said something friendly and appreciative. She let go of his hand and he straightened up and followed Lady Windward to a chaise in a quiet corner behind the Queen Mother's chair. Windward put her hands onto his chest and slid them to the buttons of his livery. It was strangely reminiscent of the past, and for a half second he had a vision of standing in a bedroom at Empyrean Hall with the son of a baron unbuttoning his livery. 

"Eeeeeeeeerrnah," said Crowley. He stepped back and pulled Windward's ink-stained hands away. 

"Won't you let me help you get comfortable?" said Windward. 

Crowley realized that he had never in his life been with any man who wasn't an aristocrat. He wondered if he was doomed to always lust after men who wore silk and had fine manners and took a bath every day. Men who would never look on him again now that his face was ruined. He was pathetic. He would only ever want men who wouldn’t have him. It was a real shame that he probably would never desire someone like Windward. Windward was a really nice person, as far as Crowley could tell, without actually knowing his real name or anything about him other than that he was an old friend of the Queen Mother. Windward was a decade older than himself but was always well dressed, considerate of others, and his conversation suggested that he was, if not cultured, at least literate and reasonably curious about the world. He wasn’t a bad man at all. Best to let him down easy. 

"Eyah" said Crowley. "It's kind of you to want to include me in your night of fun, but I'm not going to be able to give you anything you would want, so I should leave before I disappoint you."

"What do you think I expect from you?", said Windward.

"A stiff prick at the very least," said Crowley. "And that's not happening tonight."

"I don't expect anything from you," said Windward. "Please let me be a friend to you."

"Look," said Crowley. "You're very kind, but I'm not so far gone as to think that sorrow makes this face any prettier."

"What if we just get you more comfortable and we can lie down and talk?"

"I don't want to talk about any of it," said Crowley. 

Windward nodded. "That's how it was with me. The first time." Windward’s face was so full of compassion that Crowley was suddenly ashamed of having assumed that this was meant to be a seduction. "My first love went to sea," said Windward. "Never saw him again."

And there it was, the pronoun shift that indicated a dropping of pretense, a dropping of artificial happiness and brave faces. Windward was wearing a woman's dress and standing in a room full of loudly rutting men and inviting Crowley to have a private moment of realness. Because this room was the one of the only places where men like them could have such a conversation. 

"I was sixteen," said Windward. "I worked in the customs' house, so I knew when every ship came in. His came back without him on it." Seeing Crowley’s strong reaction, Windward waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. "No, nothing like that," he said. "He got to America and decided to stay."

"That's hard," said Crowley. "He should have come home and told you, at least." 

"That's not how things work in this world," said Windward. He gave a sad smile. "I got a letter, eventually. He wished me well." Windward lifted his hands and motioned towards the buttons on Crowley's livery coat. "Let's get that off. It can't be comfortable for relaxing in."

Together, they unbuttoned all of the buttons on Crowley's livery coat and folded it and set on the floor under their chosen chaise. Leaving nice clothes on top of any surface which could be fucked upon was a dangerous choice in this room. 

Crowley took his boots and stockings off. He stuffed the stockings in the boots and propped his powdered wig on top of them just under the scrolled raised side of their chaise. "Shirt too," said Windward. "Or the girls will think you don't like me." Crowley took his shirt off. Then they laid down on their sides on the chaise. Crowley didn't really want to talk, so they watched the room, both of them propped up on cushions, with Windward pressed up against Crowley's back and draping an arm over his bare chest. 

Crowley wasn't dead. Lying in a candlelit room watching men kiss and cuddle and fuck while another man gently ran fingernails over his chest was actually stirring. Which meant Crowley's body was deciding that he was going to actually live. He wouldn't die of heartbreak; he would live in the bizarre world he now found himself in. This London 'supper club' had been intended to be a temporary part of his life, a way to keep sane while working his way back to his husband and his real life. The real life where he had true love. The one where there were fields of grass surrounded by neat rows of hedges. The one where he was excited to learn about the thoughts of long-dead philosophers and playwrights instead of about the wide range of illegal things that men did at night in London. 

The million-mile fall from grace that had started the moment Lucien Morningstar had pulled Anthony Crowley onto his knees had finally ended today. Aziraphale had been Crowley's very last connection with the gentle life he had been raised to expect. And now, here he was, in some sort of smoky candlelit underworld, full of grunts and screams and the slapping of flesh. 

To be fair, the room wasn't all an underworld. There was a group lounging around having a conversation. There was a young couple which, having satisfied nature, was sharing a chair, one of them straddling the other's lap. They were kissing and whispering into each other's ears. Crowley imagined that they might be whispering the same sort of promises he had whispered to Aziraphale once upon a time. 

That thought ended the stirring feeling. He was sad again. He rolled back to lean on his companion's chest. "I think I need to go home," he said to Windward. 

"Stay," said Windward. He wrapped his arm over Crowley's chest and gave him a one armed hug. 

" 'M just gonna cry," said Crowley. 

"So cry," said Windward. Then he whispered: "I promise I won't call you a Nancy-boy if you cry."

Crowley reached back and smacked Windward on the arm, right underneath the end of his frilly short sleeve. In return, Windward scruffed Crowley's hair. Which nearly made Crowley jump out of his skin. He had thrown off Windward's arm, sprung to his feet, and balled his fists before he was even aware of what had made him do it. Then he stood there over him, shaking with nerves, and mortified at having nearly attacked his friend.

Windward sat up. But he didn't look at Crowley at all. He was looking around the room for danger. As if a candle had been knocked into a curtain or a fight had started. When Windward saw nothing more wrong than a very awkwardly drunk person half falling off a chair, he peered up at Crowley. "What happened?", he asked. "Did someone just walk over your grave?"

Crowley hung his head. He couldn't even begin to describe how broken he was or how he had been made broken by the first aristocrat to touch him. Not today, not on the day that the very last aristocrat had finished the job by stomping on his heart. 

Windward stood up and held his arms open. Crowley's feet wouldn't move to take him any closer. But something crashed into him from behind and propelled him into Windward's arms. And something else crashed into them and something else. 

"She's shaking all over," said a voice. 

"It came on her all of a sudden."

"A fever?"

"Lie her down."

"Could it be typhoid?"

“Does your belly hurt?”

“We need to get her out of here. If it's typhoid, she needs fresh cool air."

The cacophony of concern was dizzying. "It's not a sickness," said Crowley. "I'm not ill." He opened his eyes to see a half-naked Miss Alice pressed to his side. Her yellow dress had been pushed off her shoulders until it was so far down her body that it looked like a skirt that was hanging askew, with one side up to her ribs and the other almost down her hip. She didn't seem to care how disheveled she looked. She had laid her hand on Crowley’s heart to feel how fast it was beating. And she looked very concerned and confused. 

"I was afraid of something," said Crowley. This was the wrong thing to say, because he was pushed down onto the chaise. Lady Windward, Lady Lovelorn and Miss Jezebel sat on all three sides of him on the chaise, and Miss Alice plopped onto the floor and leaned against his leg. They all looked up at his face as if they expected him to elaborate. 

The room was close and warm, but being barefoot and shirtless felt very chilly right now. Or maybe he thought he was chilly because he was shaking and his mind was trying to justify why he was shaking. Four men, in various states of undress, were staring at him with deep concern. He didn't want to explain the past humiliation that had led to him reacting so fearfully to nothing at all. He wasn't even sure at all if he could explain how being had by a rich man in a clean and expensively decorated room in a mansion could even qualify as a humiliation. The carpet on the floor of the room that Lord Morningstar had abused Crowley in probably cost more than the combined yearly salaries of everyone in this parlour. 

He opened his mouth to speak and all that came out was a warbling moan. Lady Windward started rubbing his back, and the moan grew louder until he felt like the vibration of it was directly siphoning newly vaporized matter out of a hard lump that had lived in the center of his chest for the last seven years of his life. 

"That's doing you good," said Jezebel. And she squeezed his hand. 

He moaned again, like a woman in labour, and then again, and again. As loud as he wanted. Because why not? He'd heard a dozen men screaming out their pleasure tonight; so why shouldn't he scream out his pain? His eyes were nearly closed, but he saw a dark vision swirling in the air in front of him. He was invoking every demon of Hell with his voice, and they were pouring out of his mouth and into the air in a cloud of buzzing winged black demonic imps. With each cry, he imagined sending them forth to find Lucien Morningstar and tear him to pieces with millions of needle-sharp claws and teeth. 

When he was finally empty of rage, Crowley slumped. Lady Windward pulled him onto her chest and leaned back against the back of the divan so that he could lie on top of her and cry till he was limp. 

As he was ruining Windward's pretty white linen frock with his tears, someone was touching his back with gentle fingers, and someone was rubbing each of his calves, and someone was touching his shoulders, which should have made him flinch with fear, but it didn't this time. It actually didn't, and that fact made him cry even harder. His head and neck were still not to be touched, and he whispered this to Windward, who told everyone, and then Crowley asked if they, maybe, could stop touching his shoulders, because it was overwhelming, and instantly the hands were removed from anywhere north of his ribcage, and he cried again, from relief and from something else, something that had to do with feeling taken care of for the first time in his adult life. 

At long last, he rolled onto his back, resting his head on Windward's shoulder, and staring up at the ceiling. He felt Windward underneath him, supporting him and bracketing his hips with his legs; he felt other gentle hands all over his body. 

"Up to here is fine," said Crowley. He drew a line across his chest, half-way between his nipples and his shoulders. 

"Does that mean I’m allowed to tickle your armpits?", asked Alice, who was kneeling on the floor next to him and tracing slow patterns over his ribs with her fingertips. 

"No," he said. But he laughed. It was funny. He was divorced and he was half-naked in a molly house lying on another man and he was going to live. He reached up and back and found Windward's hand and laced their fingers together. 

"Do you want me to suck your prick?", said Alice. "I'm very good at it." There was a murmur of agreement from the others, which let Crowley know that Alice wasn't making an idle boast. 

"Yes," said Crowley. 

Sooner or later he'd have to let someone who wasn't Aziraphale do this. And it might as well be sooner. Crowley gulped and swallowed down that little piece of sorrow. He felt it travel down his throat towards what remained of the dark lump in his chest, but before it got there, Lady Windward managed to hug him from below by squeezing him with both legs and one arm. Which forced him to exhale that little piece of sorrow back out as a sigh. 

The three of them, Alice, Jezebel, and Lovelorn, worked together to unbutton his breeches at the waist and knees, and they drew them off so skillfully that it felt like a warm breeze. And now he was naked in a molly house with four men pleasuring him as he lay back at his leisure.There were gentle hands on him everywhere: his nipples, his ribs, his calves, his hips, his belly, and he started to float away. Was this love? It was something very much like it. It was not a kind of love he had any words to describe. There wasn't even a pretending to marriage or exclusivity. Everyone who was touching him had been with someone else tonight. None of them had made him any promises or declarations of love at all. But he still felt so completely warm and safe, as if he was in a chest-deep warm bath, or rolling naked in a loft of feathers. 

He could feel tears leaking out of his eyes, but he wasn't crying, exactly. He was sort of flying and floating. He was mourning the end of his marriage and feeling a physical ecstasy that he had never experienced in his life. His heart felt like it was bursting with joy and pain. He felt his body quickening; he realized that his prick was throbbing, and then he felt a shifting of bodies all around him and someone rearranged his legs and then there was the most glorious warmth and wetness surrounding his prick and he starting calling out to God and thinking that he might believe in her after all. 

The sensations were everywhere. He was anchored by a body beneath him and the hand that he was clasping, and every bit of him from his chest on down to his toes was being touched while he was being sucked. He didn't want to look down, to see who was where or what they were doing, so he stared at the dark wooden beams of the ceiling, which seemed far away in the flickering candlelight. His body was floating, his mind was reeling. He was safe and loved and someone was stroking behind his bollocks and someone was licking the back of his knee and someone was pinning his hips down so he could do nothing but take it as the pressure built and built. Miss Alice was the best suck-prick in the world. She brought him to the edge and back a half-dozen times so he was completely out of his mind before she finally drove him over the cliff. The sensation tore through his body like lightning, making every muscle clench, whiting out vision, and leaving him a twitching, panting, mess. 

When it was done, he opened his eyes, lolled his head to the side, and saw that almost everyone in the parlour was staring at him. When his jaw dropped open, they all burst into applause. The half-naked Miss Alice stood up between his legs on the divan and took a bow, which earned a second round of applause. Then everyone in the room went back to their own business, whatever it had been.

Crowley curled up against the side of a customs house clerk whose real name he didn't know. He was naked, and over two dozen men had just watched him have a nervous attack and an ecstatic experience that he couldn't even find words to describe. He wasn't sure if he was the same person that he'd been at the beginning of the day. Everything felt shifted and strange as if he'd walked through time itself. He wasn't sure if he still knew how his body worked. All he knew was that he could hear Lady Windward's heartbeat through the side of her ribs and he was grateful, so very grateful, that he could just hold on to another human being.

Another wave of grief crashed through him, pure and raw. He couldn't hold the tears back at all. There wasn't a him left to hold onto anything. He wasn’t so much a person as a place where a river of tears was flowing and he could no more have stood in the way of the tears than a ghost could block a coursing river. He could feel the sorrow run through him, and it felt good. It felt like something holy. 

Crowley drifted away on that holy river and entered a world of lucid dreams where Aziraphale's relatives had tied him up at the stake like a witch. They lit the fire. Crowley ran towards Aziraphale, throwing the Fell relatives out of his way. He reached the pyre and grabbed the burning sticks with his bare hands to pitch them away. When the fire was out, he climbed the rolling, shifting pile of sticks and reached out to touch Aziraphale, only to have him turn into a wisp of smoke and float away.

When Crowley woke, he was still naked and lying on the divan. A blanket was over him. The room was cool. A window was open, and a sunbeam was on the floor of the parlour. His mouth was dry. His head ached. His chest hurt. He was newly divorced. But he needed to piss. And he needed to eat and drink. He had a horse that needed caring for and a bank loan that needed paying and a promising small business that might just change the way that all of London travelled. So he got up, pulled his breeches on, and got on with living. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is a wreck. 
> 
> Lady Windward, a clerk, drags Crowley into the parlour. Windward cuddles a distraught Crowley, and touches his hair, accidentally triggering his flashback of the day Morningstar assaulted him.
> 
> Everyone is concerned about Crowley's over the top fear reaction. He can't find the words to explain.
> 
> A group of men touch him to soothe him and young Miss Alice gives him a tremendous blow job, after which he cries himself to sleep in Windward's arms.


	23. Bess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley meets a girl, and discovers that loving a woman brings complexities that he isn't quite ready for. 
> 
> Meanwhile, he develops a deeper friendship with Lady Windward, who helps him untangle some of the pain of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> Non-consensual non-monogamy. Crowley is not going to tell his wife about the molly house.
> 
> Discussion of/flashback to rape
> 
> Moral complexity
> 
> Abusive family structure
> 
> The following happens mostly offstage but the emotional impacts are felt in the story: alcoholism, verbal abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse of young children, poverty, hunger.
> 
> Summary in end notes
> 
> Also, I'm experimenting with embedding a picture by GayDemonicDisaster, so you can see the handsome face that Bess falls in love with.

  
  


It was June of 1815. The summer so far had been a bit cooler than usual, which was odd, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that concerned a city dweller very much. London was often cloudy and rainy. Now it was just a little more so. Crowley wasn’t thinking about the weather much. His business had got off to a rough start in the first few months, between the difficulties with Bentley and the crash and his divorce, but now things were better. Bentley was finally starting to settle down and trust him as a driver, and he was getting some regular clients and developing a route around the city. Three profitable months in a row seemed to indicate that the worst was behind him, and so Crowley had decided to treat himself. 

Right now, he was standing in the parlour of the supper club with Miss Alice on her knees in front of him. She was mumbling around a mouthful, doing a type of work that she was famous for among the club members.

“There,” said Alice, taking the last of the pins out of her mouth. She had just finished tacking up the hem of Crowley’s brand new white muslin dress. “I think that the drape suits your figure very well. We’ll do the green for the ribbon under the bosom because it’s perfect with your fiery hair. And I do insist on adding lace to the collar and the sleeves. It’s all the fashion, and you must look your best for your debut, otherwise what will everyone think of me? Ready by next Wednesday at the latest. Just try not to take it off during your first fifteen minutes in the cockloft. I want everyone to get a good look at it.” 

“Well, Alice,” said the duke, “I always say that the only reason that any of your dresses ever stay on for more than fifteen minutes is that you put them on the other girls.”

Miss Alice stuck out her tongue. Then she unhooked the back of Crowley’s dress and held it carefully so that he could avoid the pins as he slipped out of it. Once the dress was off, Crowley managed to wrestle his way out of his stays mostly on his own. He was getting the hang of it. The secret was to take the wadding out first and then work the laces open. Considering his proclivities, Crowley had never thought he’d need to understand feminine undergarments, but his life had always been filled with unexpected adventures, and he found that he was happiest when he was adaptable. 

There wasn’t much point to getting dressed again, since he’d need to change into his livery in twenty minutes anyway, so Crowley was perfectly naked as he helped the duke move furniture around the room.

“Considering how much everyone’s already seen of me,” said Crowley, “I feel like I’ve already had my debut.”

“It’s nice that you’re earning enough now to afford the weekly club fee and a new dress besides,” said Duke Bottomly. “You’ll look lovely at the public ball this autumn.” He set down his end of the sofa and nodded at Crowley with a sort of avuncular pride. “I’m so glad that your business has been successful and you’ve built up enough savings that you can afford to do something nice for yourself.”

Money in his savings account was actually not something that Crowley had at the moment. And a naked man with pale skin is never particularly good at hiding a blush. So Duke Bottomly noticed. 

“You do have some savings, Constance?”, said the duke. “Three or four months worth of business expenses? In case of a crash or other misfortune?”

“Meh, dahyh,” said Crowley. “Working on that. Will have it all taken care of by autumn.”

***

But July and August were no warmer than June had been. There were rumours of crop failures, not just in England, but on the continent as well, and the middle class customer that Crowley had counted on was too concerned with being able to afford bread to be willing to spend money on even the most budget-friendly transportation option. Crowley could still get fares from people who were in a hurry, but the business was much much harder than he had realized, and his gig was as often empty as it was full. 

Crowley turned back to smuggling. It was the only way. He drove his brand new gig for as many hours as Bentley could stand, and then he pretended to have a client and he got a carriage and used it to transport whatever the Queen Mother’s friends needed to transport around the city. For her smaller deliveries, he even used his gig. Whatever money he made in smuggling, half of it needed to be used to pay off his loan. The rest went to feeding his horse because, by August, Bentley’s grain suddenly cost twice what it should. Crowley was now making less money than he would have made if he’d never started the business with the gig to begin with. It was maddening. He’d ensnared himself with his own genius idea and now he was in debt and a criminal twice over. 

‘Could be worse,’ said Crowley to himself. ‘At least I’m not stuck in a marriage to a fool who can’t say no to her terrible family. At least I’m a free man.'

***

by GayDemonicDisaster 

Can't see the image? Click here:

[http://ukshires.net/AO3/small-for-web-art/19-12-20MollyHouseScan50.jpg?fbclid=IwAR3t3kwuzVDROjcoTJrU1fpnPP6lc_q-x8y_p13DornMzWeVK7uwjOqaPes](http://ukshires.net/AO3/small-for-web-art/19-12-20MollyHouseScan50.jpg?fbclid=IwAR3t3kwuzVDROjcoTJrU1fpnPP6lc_q-x8y_p13DornMzWeVK7uwjOqaPes%22%20alt=%22A%20scarred%20but%20still%20attractive%20man)

***

Crowley was in a middle class area on a cool day in late August. It was one he didn’t know well, though it was less than a mile from the stables. He was driving his gig in the traditional way, sitting on the cushioned bench, because he actually had cargo on the back: a bunch of pieces of luggage whose contents he had been careful not to learn anything about. He was dressed well enough: his special livery, might, at a glance, pass as an eccentric gentleman’s clothes, and so he had driven through Town without suspicion. 

“Excuse me,” he said to a group of young women, “Is that Saint Paul’s church over there?”

They all giggled and then finally one of them, a tall girl with striking raven hair done up with red ribbons all around, finally answered. 

“Yes sir,” she said. 

“Can you point me towards Ipswich Road, Miss?” 

She gave him directions, and then, as he drove off, she shouted: “Feel free to drive that fancy gig back down this street on your way home!” And all of the girls giggled and shrieked. 

He made his delivery and, because it was the same distance anyway, he drove back via that very street where the girls had accosted him and, lo and behold, there was the same girl with the raven hair. Now she was with just one other girl, a brown haired girl who was frowning and had her arms crossed over her belly. Crowley had been planning to just tip his hat as he drove by, but the raven haired girl stepped into the street and forced him to pull up. Then she gave Bentley an appraising look. 

“That’s a pretty mare you have, sir,” she said. “I’ve not seen such a fine horse in years. What are you doing here in our area today?”

And the next thing he knew, he was talking to this bold girl. Her name was Bess and she was eighteen years old and whip-smart. Right away, she noticed the altered platform at the back of the gig, and so he felt obliged to climb up onto it and show off how he drove from the back, with the reins threaded over the awning of the gig. Then she and her cousin wanted to ride with him driving from the back, so he took them around the area, which created a sensation. She screamed with joy whenever he took a tight corner or went fast, and everyone on the street stopped to look and shout. Crowley had been so constantly thinking about his money troubles that it was a relief to do something spontaneous with strangers. When he brought Bess and her cousin back to their own street corner, a bunch of children burst into applause, and the simple joy of it made the gloomy August day seem as bright as any other.

Giving Bess that joyride gave Crowley an idea. He brought his gig up to the parks that he used to haunt when he stalked Aziraphale: St. James, Green, and Hyde. There weren’t a lot of wealthy people around in August, but he managed to give a few extra fast rides around the park, and he had an idea that, in December, when the parks were crowded with wealthy young people who were seeking to impress each other and have a thrill, he would find a good source of income. 

A few days later, when he chanced to have a fare that took him somewhat close to the area where he’d met the tall raven-haired girl, he made a detour through the street where he’d picked her up. A bunch of children started shrieking when they saw him standing on the platform at the back of the gig, and then, out of one of the doors, wiping her hands on an apron, came Bess. 

***

Bess was nothing like Aziraphale. First, obviously, the gender. A woman. Crowley hadn't been sure whether he'd ever be able to fall in love with a woman, but by the second week, there he was, regularly in her up to his knuckles, watching her squirm, and loving every minute of it. The things that Lucien Morningstar had done to him those many years ago hadn't ruined him for women after all. He could love women, and the woman he loved was Bess. He loved her laugh, he loved the way she talked, he loved her smell; he became obsessed with her. That made him a reformed sodomite. Well, semi-reformed. He still did visit the Queen Mother's parlour twice a week to lend a hand to men in need. Which wasn't technically sodomy. 

Bess was nothing like Aziraphale. She had raven-black hair and, when she took it out of its twists, it hung half way down her back. She would sit over him, let her hair down, and take her pleasure from his mouth while he reached up and touched its waves. Black hair, not white. Completely different. He could make a very exact comparison of the color, because he still had a lock of pure-white curls in an envelope in the breast pocket of his coat. It was there, of course, because he didn't clean his pockets out as often as he should. There was no other reason.

Bess was nothing like Aziraphale. She was impressed that he could sign his name and she bragged to her friends that Crowley could read because she'd once seen him sounding out the words on a handbill posted in a window. She'd never seen his collection of astronomy magazines, nor would she understand that being able to read a handbill didn't give him the skill to readily read the things he really wished to understand. She simply admired him. She looked up to him. She expected him to take care of her, and she thought him fully capable of doing so. Which made a nice change. It made him feel good. Like he could someday become a real husband to her. One whose opinions were listened to and who could chart the course for both of them, without constantly fighting for dominance.

Bess was nothing like Aziraphale. She loved his carriage. She named it the ‘Devil's Carriage’, and she waited at the street corner every afternoon, sometimes by herself, sometimes with her cousin or a friend, to get a free ride around the area before he took Bentley back to the stables. She delighted at the high speeds and would lean out the side of the gig and shout at Crowley to urge him to go faster, even as her cousin clung to her and screamed in terror. When he nearly flipped them over on a fast corner (he might have been showing off a bit), she didn't seem to even realize the danger. She was just all the more impressed by him. 

Bess was nothing like Aziraphale. She trusted his plans for their future. He wanted to someday own a stable full of fast gigs, and she wanted to live with him at that stable. He wanted to drive fast horses, and she was enthusiastic about learning everything about fast horses. She wasn't afraid of the boxes and packages that he took around town. She was happy to ride in the gig on these deliveries, to provide cover for him, so that it looked like they were a couple going on a journey with their luggage piled in the back. The adventure of it thrilled her. 

Bess was nothing like Aziraphale. Her family could barely brag itself to be 'not poor'. They ran a laundry business out of the same single room that they all lived in; they had to rent out the two upstairs rooms of their house to subletters just to pay their landlord. Bess had never drunk wine or eaten off of a china plate. She spent her days washing other people's clothes, but she wasn’t ashamed of it. Unlike Aziraphale, she didn’t seem to care about rank or money. And, best of all, she didn't give a fig for her family or their opinions. She knew that she was the healthiest and strongest of them and that she was going to leave them someday. Her drunken stepfather and overworked mother abused her whenever she returned from being out with Crowley, but she didn’t care. She told Crowley she wouldn't let it interfere with their relationship. Her brothers expected her to wait on them as if they were still infants, but she was firm with them. Her ten-year-old sister was cowed by their father's rages, but not Bess. Bess had bruises on her wrists sometimes, but she wasn't at all afraid of her stepfather. She was just biding her time, and, also, if she really wanted to, she could thrash him. She just hadn't chosen to yet. Whereas Aziraphale had been such a coward that his family had been able to torture him with mere words.

Being with Bess was completely different from being with Aziraphale. Crowley could court her openly. When Crowley brought her to the stables one afternoon, everybody smiled and waved and instantly understood the nature of their relationship. The stableman's wife ran out to meet Bess and talk to her in the street. Then, before they could depart, she pressed a piece of fruit into Bess's hand. When Crowley rented a private room for himself and Bess to enjoy, from a sour faced woman he had rented from a few times years earlier, she wasn't sour at all. She winked at them as she led them upstairs. He thought it was a coincidence, but it happened again a week later: another place that he'd used to rent charged him less this time and the children weren't bundled away as they passed. He knew why it was, and he felt a little guilty about it. But it was so very easy to get used to brazenly holding Bess's hand in the hallways while waiting for their host to let them into the room. The only consequence he faced for such a familiar gesture was a knowing look from their temporary landlady: she sympathized with a young couple that wanted to cuckold the parson. 

After three weeks, Crowley realized that Bess was actually a little like Aziraphale in one way. She loved to eat. Whatever treats Crowley brought her, she enjoyed with gusto. It was practically indecent how she moaned over every food, and then finished up her enjoyment by offering to make a dessert out of him. Bess was eighteen years old and insatiable. She always wanted his cock, though he refused to give it to her anywhere but her hands or her mouth. He was terrified of how deeply in debt he was. 

And, then again, Bess was perhaps a little like Aziraphale in another way too: she was full of compassion. She thought about the children who lived in the streets and she talked about how she wished she could help them. Sometimes when she talked about her brothers and sister, she mentioned how lovely they were and how funny. When Crowley brought her something nice to eat, she always set aside half of it to bring home to them. As they got to know each other better, she started to talk about needing to protect them a bit more than she talked about how they annoyed her. 

Strange things were happening in the world during the weeks that Crowley courted Bess. The un-summer came to a close, and the autumn weather seemed like winter. There was a panic in the city now that there was no pretending that any part of the year’s grain crops could be saved. The price of bread had been high all summer, but when autumn came the price quadrupled overnight to an unheard-of four shillings a pound. The haziness in the sky increased, and even on cloudless days the sunsets were orange. Crowley had heard a rumour, from one of his customers, that it all had something to do with a volcano on the other side of the world. He wasn't sure if it was possible for a volcano in the South Pacific to affect the weather in England, and there was nobody to read science articles for him anymore, so he couldn't find out one way or the other. 

Alcohol sales went up throughout the city, but Crowley wasn't getting much benefit from it. The constable who the Queen Mother got along with so well was brought up on corruption charges, and the Queen Mother needed to shut down all of her extra-legal operations while she got the measure of the new constable. Crowley didn't trust most of the other people who offered him little jobs, so he was forced to get most of his income from honest work. With the supper club closed too, he would have felt desperately alone and worried, but Bess was a grand distraction. 

As the frighteningly cold autumn went on, Bess made it clear that she wanted more from Crowley than just rides around the city and meetings in alleyways and rented rooms. She wanted to go faster in every way.

"We'll do it standing up," she said. "Your seed will fall out."

Crowley wasn't sure that things worked this way, but what did he know about women? They were complicated. They tasted and felt different every time. They had weeks where they were keen and ready to go and weeks where they were moody and sore, and weeks where they bled, and only they seemed to understand it all. He was an amateur as far as women were concerned, and Bess was so very sure of herself. 

"I'd have to be on my back for it to go all the way up to my womb," she explained impatiently. "That's why a marriage bed is so important for getting children."

It seemed to make sense. (Though, admittedly, his mind was a little less than sharp at the exact moment he came to agree with her.) So they did it as she suggested. Standing up. And then Crowley walked around with her for an hour afterwards, to be absolutely sure that everything he'd put in her would drain out. 

Luckily, within a week of starting on fucking, the fellow who did carriage repairs in the yard behind the stables explained to Crowley that that wasn't how it worked with women. So Crowley switched back to pleasuring Bess with his fingers and mouth. This frustrated her. Now that she wasn't a virgin, she wanted him more than ever. She cried and begged, but he said no. He was perfectly responsible for the entirety of the following week. He knew they'd have to wait a half year or so before they could marry so that he could regain his financial footing. It was funny being the one who was delaying the progress of the relationship. Just the opposite of being with Aziraphale. Fortunately, thanks to Bess, he was completely cured of his obsession with that maddeningly condescending aristocrat. He didn't think of him at all. 

It happened a few days later. 

He came to her family's damp little house and Bess didn't run out to greet him. She looked pale and queasy as they rode around the city. He stopped the gig near a park and the fresh air seemed to revive her a bit, but not enough. She was sick in a hedge. Crowley refused to drive her home. He feared that if he left her at home, she'd be dead by morning. Cholera struck so fast. A person could be healthy one day, a little sick the next, and dead on the third day. And between the damp laundry and the general stench of her neighbourhood, there was enough of a miasma that it could only worsen the cholera. Crowley brought her to the stable that night, snuck her into a loose box with his own Bentley, made a bed of straw for her, and woke her every few hours to give her water that had been cleaned with oats. 

The next morning, she still seemed weak, and so he brought her sweets and a small roll of soft bread that cost a fortune. He needed to work, and he begged the stableman to let her sleep in the hayloft for the day. He didn't dare return her to the stale air in her neighbourhood. She was still weak halfway through the day when he returned to change horses, but he stood over her and made her eat and drink. 

"I ought to go home," she said. And, as much as he wanted to keep her with him, Crowley had no place to keep her for another night. Bentley only had the loose box every third night, and there was no way to alter the schedule without upsetting all who worked in the stable. The stableman, Bob Wright, wouldn't let an unmarried woman stay in the hayloft with the men. It was unseemly. Crowley was desperate. He pleaded with the stableman. He felt that Bess's life was on the line. Cholera was a killer. 

"One more night," he said. "Just to let her regain her strength."

Mrs. Wright came downstairs to see what the commotion was, and Crowley begged for her help. He offered to add a shilling to his weekly rental payment for her to let Bess have a place on the floor of the flat above the carriage house. And she agreed, for one night. 

The next morning, Bess looked no better, but she insisted on going home. Crowley visited her at home that night and she seemed better. But she didn't improve in the subsequent days. He brought all sorts of foods and she only picked at them. 

"I think it's consumption," Crowley said to the stableman. "She's gone pale."

"I think," he replied, "That you should talk to her father."

They announced the wedding at Bess's church that very Sunday. The date of the marriage was set, and it was to be a mere thirteen weeks and five days from the day Crowley had driven his carriage through her neighbourhood. 

***

The Queen Mother reopened the supper club a week after the first public announcement of the banns for Anthony Crowley and Elizabeth Lewis. The reopening of the supper club was a grand reunion with so many old faces, and so many people happy to see Miss Constance in her white muslin dress with the green ribbon and all the lace and the short puffed sleeves. Crowley was so turned-about by the sudden changes that were happening in his life outside of the club that he spent the night prancing around in his pretty frock just enjoying the relative simplicity of life at the club. With the looming terrors of impending marriage and fatherhood for contrast, it was suddenly easy to exchange banter with a room full of people in dresses who were all simultaneously fighting for social dominance, looking for a quick opportunity to lift someone’s leg, pining for romance, and desperately avoiding thinking about how the apocalyptic weather was ruining their small businesses. 

For the first few weeks back at the supper club, Crowley was too much of a coward to tell anyone about his newfound ability to be with a woman, but when the week of the wedding loomed, he felt that he could put off the announcement no longer. He decided to tell Duke Bottomly and the Queen Mother before everyone else got there. Though he no longer served at the table, he still came early to help get the parlour and the dining room assembled. Lady Windward had arrived early too, so she helped Crowley move the furniture. When the Queen Mother and the Duke arrived to check that all was ready, Crowley spoke.

"Ahem," he said. "I have an announcement. I've met someone."

"Congratulations," said the Queen Mother.

"Did you invite her to join us tonight?", asked the Duke. 

Crowley looked down at his feet. This was the awkward part. "Can't bring her," he said.

"You didn't bag another nob?", said the Queen.

"No," said Crowley. "A, um, a girl. A real one. With . . ." And he described a feminine figure with his hands. Then, in a small voice, he said: "We're getting married this Saturday."

Windward didn't even hesitate. "Congratulations," she said. And the way she met his eyes gave him to know that she was sincere. 

"This is sudden," said the Queen Mother. 

"Eyah," said Crowley. He scrubbed his face with his hand. "For me, too."

"Ah," said the Queen Mother. She raised a knowing eyebrow. "Well, that's an old story."

"It's, um, not going to change anything at the club, is it?", said Crowley. "Me being married. That way."

Duke Bottomly smirked, "Don’t be ridiculous. Half the girls are married.” 

"I've got four children," said Windward. "But only because it took me six years to figure out where they were all coming from." Everyone laughed. Then Windward continued. "There are ways to indulge without bringing children. You'll need to learn them if you wish to be kind to your wife. After the baby arrives, come and talk to me and I'll teach you what you need to know." 

Crowley's jaw dropped open and the Queen Mother smirked and shook her head. "Dear, dear, sweet Constance," she said. Then her face was serious again. "This is what you really want, isn’t it? Do you think you can love this girl as she deserves?"

He nodded. 

"Good," she said. "Then all will be well. Now go upstairs and get into that pretty white frock before anyone else arrives."

***

  
  


There couldn't have been a worse time to marry and start a family than in the latter months of 1815. The winter was well underway by October, and by December the prices for coal and wood were twice what they should be. Bread and flour were now five times the usual price, when they could be obtained, so stew was thickened only with peas and mashed beans. Crowley could barely afford rent anywhere decent, and he wasn't comfortable leaving his pregnant wife alone in an empty flat all day, so he elected to move into the crowded house with Bess's family. 

The family was complicated. Bess lived with her mother and step-father and three younger half-siblings: a ten year old sister and two brothers aged six and four. Bess had lived away from her own mother until she herself was twelve. The reason for this was that she had been born when her own mother was an unmarried fourteen-year-old; a kindly aunt in the countryside had taken Bess in and raised her for twelve years. But when Bess’s half-brother was born, it was decided that Bess should return to her rightful mother to help out. The family ran a laundry business, and Bess was her mother's deputy in the business while her ten year old sister split her time between helping with the laundry and minding the little boys. 

Crowley was able to pay enough towards the rent that he and Bess could evict one of the sublettors and get one of the upstairs rooms to themselves. In a happier household, this would have been a lover’s nest. In Bess’s household, their little room felt like a castle under siege. As soon as he stepped out the door of his bedroom, Crowley felt the heaviness of the air. It wasn’t just the constant damp from the laundry, but also thick tension, as if a decade of abuse and fighting had infused the air with fearful anticipation. 

Whenever he was at home, Crowley was constantly on guard, defending his wife from the subtle little cruelties from her stepfather and mother. At the end of the first week, his shoulders were around his ears and a permanent pain developed in the muscles between his shoulder blades. As much as he hated arguing, he was constantly engaged in shouting matches with his mother-in-law, who seemed to expect Bess to work at the laundry as hard as she ever did, even though she was worn out from pregnancy. Crowley could tell that the only time Bess got any rest was when he was home, and even then, her rest was marred by the simmering resentment from her parents. They said that she’d be doing enough sitting after the baby came, and they needed her to earn as much as possible now. And Crowley, who knew exactly how much cheap gin cost, would watch his wife's earnings disappear down her stepfather's throat every night. 

How he hated living there. But Bess said she was happy. She told him that since he'd moved into the family her step-father and her mother hadn't struck any of her siblings. Crowley hadn't told them not to hit their children, but they seemed to understand that he wouldn't tolerate coming home to find bruises on the little ones. He was a healthy twenty-six year old man and Bess's mother and stepfather had both had hard lives that had weakened their bodies to the point that they were intimidated by his strength. The fear-soaked atmosphere of the house reminded Crowley of Empyrean Hall, only here in Bess’s family, it was physical strength and not financial power that dictated who was afraid of whom. The cruelty wasn’t dressed up in pretty language and served with tea, but the feeling of it was the same. 

Bess’s parents both feared Crowley too much to do anything so overt as to bruise one of the children while he lived there. And yet still all the members of the household constantly struggled for scraps of power with little cruelties of word and deed that were sometimes so subtle that Crowley couldn’t even name them. He just felt the misery. Bess coped by being as agreeable and hard-working as her exhausted body would allow. When the two of them were in their little room at night with the door closed, she would whisper words of defiance and anger, but with her family, she was obsequious and bland. The bold confident young woman that Crowley had fallen in love with only existed in their bedroom or when they went out for a drive in the city. 

Crowley didn't like to leave his wife alone in the house at night, because that was when her father was most likely to be drunk. This meant that his twice weekly visits to the Queen Mother’s court were reduced to once a fortnight at most. In the winter, when the darkness made everyone drunker and crueler, he didn’t dare visit court at all. Anyway, with his business suffering from the famine and the cold weather, he could not afford to waste money on the fee for the club. So, all winter, as his young wife grew rounder, Crowley’s pretty muslin frock sat unused at the bottom of a crate in one of the Queen Mother's bedrooms. Being without the company of the girls made Crowley feel as if he'd lost an enormous piece of himself. Everyone who knew anything about that side of him seemed to have simply vanished with the sun. 

Sometimes, when he was at work, Crowley would slip up to the hayloft and unlock the little box where he kept his letters from Aziraphale, and he would open up a favourite letter, one of the funny ones, from the first year, when they had both been so optimistic. He couldn't easily read the words, but he had them memorized, so that the shape of the paragraphs reminded him of what it said. It was a guilty pleasure. He thought that he should really burn all of them, now that he was married to someone else. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. 

It was a strange life. Except for a little smuggling here and there, he was barely a criminal at all. He was a married man. Legally married. It was as if the other life, the one where he was a sodomite, had never existed. Once upon a time, in another world, men in makeup and dresses pleasured each other in a hidden parlour, and Crowley had been among them. How many lives could one person have? He'd once been a servant at a well-regarded estate. He'd once been abused by a visiting lord in a pretty bedroom, day after day for a whole week and been forced to quietly serve that same lord at supper every single night of it. He'd once seduced a different lord and shared a marriage ceremony with him in a temple on a great estate. He'd once rejected a chance to be the valet of a future earl because he had been too proud to be kept by another. Now he was a working man with a promising business, though it was off to a rough start, and he would soon have a family. Crowley was a shapeshifter. He was twenty-six years old, and had already been so many different people. 

***

  
  


When the spring returned, and he finally started being able to return to the supper club, Crowley was surprised to find that everyone there took a great interest in him. Lady Windward was very frank one evening in April. 

"I'm very careful," she said. "I can't bring a pox home to my family. So hands are my limit, most of the time."

"Most of the time?", said Crowley. 

"I like to get my bollocks against someone’s arse," said Windward.

“Same," said Crowley. Then he got wistful about Aziraphale again. “She was the type that got a lot of pleasure out of it. I used to worry that I might hurt her, but she always begged for more. I never understood why, just counted myself lucky, you know. I don’t like it done to me."

"There's a world of difference between having something done to you and having something done for you," said Windward. 

"Well," said Crowley. "The ones who did it to me were the types to do to others whatever they wanted." He shrugged. "Went with the titles and the money."

"So you have expensive taste?", said Windward. 

Crowley shrugged. "Not anymore," he said. 

"You're more flexible now?"

"Yeah."

"How much more flexible?"

"Eh?", said Crowley. 

"I'm wondering if you'd be willing to try me. I'm proud to say I have a skill. Unlike Miss Alice, I don't give out my favours indiscriminately. I like to find one regular person that I can trust and I like to take good care of them. I think you are a girl of character and I’d like to think I could make you very happy." 

Crowley’s eyes widened. He pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head. "Never again," he said.

"Have you had much experience of it?"

"Enough," said Crowley. "I think some are just built to enjoy being buggered, and some aren't. For me it stung. Made me queasy. Gave me cramps in my belly. "

Windward shivered and drew in a sharp breath through her teeth. Then she shook her head as she pressed her lips together very tightly and flared her nostrils. She went silent for a few seconds. At last, her face softened and she said: "It sounds to me like you were very ill used.” 

Crowley shrugged. "Can't complain of it,” he said. “I was the one who went into their rooms. Was usually my own choice." He gave a little smile. "The soft beds were nice." 

"Well," said Windward. "If you ever decided to give me a chance, I would be honoured to show you how you deserve to be treated."

***

  
  


His coat was gone. Crowley woke up one morning in late spring, and his coat had disappeared from the peg on the bedroom wall. The bedroom that he shared with his wife was tiny, and to search it all was but a minute's work. He left Bess asleep on her side in their little bed, and he walked downstairs in his nightshirt to find his long black coat laying at one end of the laundry table, and his mother-in-law standing on the other end, using the dim early morning light to do her ironing by. 

He ran and snatched up his coat and drew his fingers along the lining. There was no crinkle of paper. The address of the rich lords’ cockloft wasn’t important; he’d long ago memorized it. But the other thing that was missing was irreplaceable. He ran his eyes around the room, searching for the envelope with the precious lock of pure-white hair. And when he finally looked her way, his mother-in-law was smiling at him in a very mean way. 

"You're welcome," she said. "For the washing and ironing of your coat." She let the silence stretch on. Crowley couldn't find a single word to say. He knew, from her face, that the lock of Aziraphale’s hair was gone. His mother-in-law jerked her head toward the fireplace to let him know that there was no hope of getting it back. "You're lucky our Bess didn't find that,” she said. "I knew you were a dirty cheat. I'll be keeping an eye on you."

"She was dead," said Crowley. It was the closest he could come to the truth. But he could hear, in the silence, that Bess’s mother didn't believe him. He found that he didn't particularly care.

Bess's younger sister walked by, her little arms full of a basket of clean laundry. She had a pale blue ribbon in her hair. Crowley stepped in front of her. He took the heavy basket out of her arms and set it on the table and then held out his hand. Whatever she saw in his face terrified her. Her eyes widened and her face turned white. With shaking hands, she reached behind her head and untied the ribbon. As soon as it was free of her hair, he tore it away from her hands. 

***

"I was married," said Crowley. "Before I met you." 

Bess nodded. She was feeding towels through a mangle. 

"I loved her very much. But she's in a better place now," he said. "I kept a few things. One of them was a lock of her hair; this is the ribbon that held it. I'll always love her, but she's no competition to you."

Bess smiled. "I never listen to my mother. She's jealous of me for having married a good man." She stopped her work at the mangle and reached out and touched the light blue ribbon that Crowley held in his hand. She closed her hand over it and then leaned up and kissed Crowley. "I'm so sorry for what my mother did. She's awful. What was her name? Your first wife?"

Aziraphale could be a woman's name. It could. But Crowley couldn't say it out loud. There was something about the way Bess's black eyes shone with compassion that made his chest tighten and his throat close up. All at once, she was holding him, reaching around her own great belly to pull him as close as she could and to lean her head against his chest. The simplicity of her love was astonishing. Her hands had never held a quill to write and were already bent and swollen from her work. Yet she felt the depth of his pain, and that was all she needed to know to sympathize and trust his lying word. 

He felt like a monster. How could he even begin to explain to her that he wasn't the decent man she thought he was? That he'd let an earl's son ruin the knees of a pair of deerskin breeches by sucking his cock in a faux Greek temple in the middle of a private park that was as big as any in London? That he was still in mourning for his illusion that he could make a wealthy man leave his title and estate? That he'd refused a soft job as a valet because of his pride, when men and women three streets away from Bess's neighbourhood sold themselves as prostitutes to all comers without a trace of self-pity? 

Bess looked up at his scarred face, studied it carefully with her eyes and then said something that made it all worse. 

"Your wife will always be with you," she said. "She's one of the angels now. We'll tie her hair ribbon to the top of our baby's basket, so that he has something pretty to look up at. And then your special angel will know that he's yours and she'll keep watch over him."

  
  


***

Even as the spring days grew long and Bess’s father drank less, Crowley only dared go to the supper club once a fortnight at most, because of how far along she was. He knew that her awkward balance made her feel terribly vulnerable, even to harsh words, and he felt guilty about leaving her, but he desperately needed a break from the misery of the household. 

He and Lady Windward had grown close enough that they’d told each other their real names, and Crowley now thought of Windward (whose name was George Langley) no longer as one of the girls, but as a special confidant. Windward had warned him against promiscuity while his wife was pregnant, so Crowley confined himself to enjoying the simplest kind of favour, often from Windward himself. The way it usually went was that Windward would have some business with another one of the girls, and then he’d find Crowley lying on their special divan in the corner and slide in behind him to hold him. They’d lie on their sides and watch the proceedings, Windward whispering a wickedly witty commentary into Crowley’s ear to make him laugh. When what they were watching got Crowley stirred up and he needed relief, Windward would snake a greased hand under his dress and his witty banter would turn into such kind and gentle words that Crowley was filled with wonder that they were meant for him. 

What Crowley felt for Windward wasn't love, exactly. At least, it was nothing like the kind of love he felt for Bess. But the need that Windward satisfied was so much more than physical. Receiving the same type of favour from the hands of any of the other girls at the club didn’t soothe him in the same way. Whatever it was that Windward gave him was some other thing he craved, and he felt it in the way his whole body softened when he felt Windward slipping behind him on the divan. 

One night they were lying together. Windward was behind Crowley, running a hand slowly up and down his flank as they watched the excessively sweet young couple that sometimes reminded Crowley of how he and Aziraphale used to be. Tonight, instead of sitting in their chair cuddling and kissing in their private way, the young couple had moved over to a divan and taken off all of their clothes. 

“I think this is their first time at this,” Windward whispered to Crowley. “They’re making quite a mess with all that grease.”

The young couple chose a perfectly ordinary position: one on elbows and knees and the other kneeling behind. When they finally managed to fit ends together the one doing the fucking slammed his hips forward causing the one being fucked to make a terrible face. On the next thrust the poor fellow yelped. Crowley flinched in sympathy, and Windward squeezed his leg.

Then he realized that Windward wasn't behind him anymore. Because Windward was suddenly standing beside the hapless couple. His hand was firmly on the shoulder of the one doing the fucking and he was whispering something in the young man’s ear. Windward made a tunnel with one hand and used two fingers on the other hand to mime a prick and demonstrate a few important principles. Then Windward bent over and whispered something to the receiving partner, who looked relieved, and then took a few deliberately deep breaths. After a minute, the two young lovers tried again, moving together so slowly that it was almost comical. They stopped after every second or third stroke to shake their heads in frustration and consult with each other or Windward. 

Crowley couldn't keep his eyes away from the painfully awkward scene in front of him. He didn't even understand why it was so compelling to him. It wasn't stirring in the least to watch these two virgins with all their pauses and negotiations. At one point the fellow on top pulled out completely and the other turned around; they kneeled on the divan and put their faces together, cheek resting against cheek, and whispered into each other's ears. After their conference, they tried a new position, with the one being fucked lying on his back and stroking himself till he spilled while his lover barely moved inside him at all. Then the one doing the fucking, such as it was, pulled out unsatisfied and laid down on the divan. They wrapped their limbs around each other and kissed and whispered together. That was it. In all of Crowley’s months in the parlour, he’d never seen a more incompetent performance of the infamous act.

"You're crying," said Windward, as he returned to Crowley’s divan.

"Mneh," said Crowley. “Nnnnnnh.” He crawled into Windward's arms, buried his face in Windward’s chest and let himself be held. He couldn't find the words for a very long time. Finally he drew himself up, found his companion’s soft brown eyes, and explained as best he could: “It was never like that for me."

  
  


***

  
  


"Where are we going?", said Bess. 

They were riding side by side in the gig on a Sunday afternoon. It was late June, though the weather was as cool as March. Crowley was going very slowly. Bess was huge, and he was afraid he'd set off her labour if he jostled her too much. He didn't know how much longer they had left, as just a twosome, and he wanted to have one extra-special trip before it was too late. 

"You'll see," he replied. The city passed away behind them as they sped west. They passed the cricket fields at Notting Hill and then some soggy fields that had been abandoned to be overgrown with weeds. The ground was wet. It wasn't frozen anymore, like it had been a few weeks earlier. Today was the longest day of the year, and, still, as far as the weather was concerned, spring had barely come. But come it had, and barely in time to allow Crowley to give Bess this special treat. 

This was the road to Aziraphale's country estate. Part of it, anyway. They only needed to drive for an hour and a half for London to be completely gone. They pulled over by the side of the road at the edge of a grassy field that couldn't have been more than twenty miles from Bess's door. 

He let her out of the gig, and she stared around in wonder. 

"The air," she said. "It's sweet. It smells so good. I'd forgotten." There were tiny flowers dotting the green field: blue violets, daffodils smaller than a finger, pale yellow cowslips and purple crocuses. The road here was slightly raised above the field. Bess wanted to walk down the bank of the road, to get closer to the flowers. Crowley positioned himself halfway down the bank and held out a sturdy arm, but she slipped anyway, and there was nothing he could do but lower her to the ground on the steep hill. 

She didn't mind a bit. She patted the bank next to her, and he sat down, ignoring Bentley's protests for just a moment so that he could watch his wife's face light up with joy. She picked a little violet and held it up to her cheek, rubbing its soft petals on the down of her skin. 

"How did you know?", she said. "I've wanted to do this for six years." She reached out with both hands to bend the stems so that the flowers covered her lap, blue and yellow and purple against the indifferent grey of her skirt. Then she threw herself onto her back to look up at the dusky orange sky. 

"It used to be blue," she said. "I wonder when it will be again."

***

"We aren't naming him after my step-father, that's certain," said Bess, as they lay in bed on the night after they had visited the countryside. Crowley was wrapped around her, with his cheek against her enormous belly so that he could feel the baby kick. "I want him to think that he has no nasty old relatives. Like he's the first boy ever in history. So we'll name him Adam. Or Eve if it's a girl. Unless you want me to name her after your angel."

"You choose whatever name you like," said Crowley. "You're doing all the work to grow the baby."

"And we'll have a little house in the countryside together, far enough from London that he can play in the grassy fields and climb trees like boys do in the country."

That wish would be a little harder to fulfill, at least in the short term. Even with all of the little side jobs he’d been doing, Crowley had still found it impossible to get out of debt. He had two years to go on the loan he'd used to buy Bentley and the gig, plus he still owed money for the repair he’d had to make when a distracted driver had ploughed into his gig over a year ago. It had been difficult to keep Bentley healthy with the grain shortages, and it hadn’t been an easy winter to have a pregnant wife with an easily upset stomach. What's more, he’d ended up buying all the food for Bess’s three younger siblings because she wouldn’t eat unless they were fed the same as her. 

Nor had it been a good year to run a discount cab service. The very rich had plenty of money to hire coaches, as always, but the middle-class market that Crowley had hoped to capture with his fast, low-priced, no-frills, conveyance showed no signs of materializing. If it weren't for well-heeled young people seeking high speed joyrides around the parks, he'd have fallen behind on his loan payments and had the horse and gig repossessed by the bank. 

Still, summer of 1816 couldn’t possibly be as bad as the previous year. Crowley was optimistic that the sun’s warmth would dispel the cold very soon, and so he felt comfortable making a promise:

"We'll move into a house of our own before the baby's third birthday," he said. "I'll drive into the city for my work and come home to you on Saturday afternoons. He or she will never remember the stink of London. And our second baby will be born in the countryside."

"And there will be no drinking in our household," said Bess. "None at all." 

"Of course."

"You'll teach him to read and write like you," said Bess. "I want Adam to be educated."

Perhaps, thought Crowley, a little way away from their home would be a hidden cellar, where barrels of highly concentrated alcohol might reside for a night or two on their way up to the city. Bess wouldn't need to know. And Crowley's cut of the money would help pay for schooling for the children. 

"As you wish, my dear," he said.

"Promise me you'll never raise a hand to him," said Bess. 

"Boy or girl," said Crowley, "Our child will never know a moment of sorrow. I promise." 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley meets a tall and beautiful girl and discovers that he enjoys her company. He accidentally gets her pregnant and marries her and moves in with her only to discover that her family is terribly abusive, and that she isn't as free of the effects of abuse as he had thought. 
> 
> The winter of 1815 brings extreme cold and famine and Crowley can barely keep his wife and her siblings and his Bentley fed. He realizes that his wife's parents used to physically abuse their children and that his presence in the household is what keeps them safe, and it is a lot of emotional pressure on him.
> 
> Spring comes and Lady Windward proposes a sexual arrangement to Crowley which he isn't ready to fully accept. But they come to an arrangement that Crowley finds to be safe and which helps him to process some of the emotional damage from his experience of rape. 
> 
> Bess makes Crowley promise that their future child will have a happy life in the countryside.


	24. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bess dies in childbirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Death, blood, toxic family system. 
> 
> This is a short chapter, to make it easier to skip if you need to. See Summary at end.

  
  
  


Mid-August, 1816, the Year Without a Summer 

There was a night when Crowley came home from work and Bess wasn’t doing her work in the laundry. His mother-in-law tried to physically block him from going upstairs, but he pushed her aside and raced up the stairs to find his young wife laying on her side in their bed, whimpering. 

"It really hurts," she said. "S’been all day."

"I'm sorry," said Crowley. He knelt by the side of the bed and held her hands in his. "It will soon be over. You just need to be brave for a little while longer."

Bess bit her lip. Then, in a small and terrified voice, she asked: "Did your angel die in childbirth?"

"No," said Crowley. "We two couldn't conceive a child. But she would be happy to know that I'll have one at last. She always wished for my happiness."

Crowley didn't leave his young wife's side for the next ten hours. Bess had an aunt who claimed to be an expert in bringing babies, but she didn’t seem to know anything useful except that it was improper to have a man in a birthing chamber and that his presence would bring bad luck. Crowley ignored her. He had never cared one bit for the gender laws of his society, and he’d be damned before he let them prevent him from being by his wife’s side when she needed him. 

He had an idea of what to expect, from a pantomime that he’d seen enacted at his supper club when one of the girls there had played at childbirth. And, of course, he’d been there for the lambing at the estate, so he knew what his wife’s body would do at the end and he wasn't queasy at all. 

Bess was far braver than the girl at the club had been. She only screamed when she was actually pushing the baby out. She did it crouched on the top of bed, leaning against Crowley, while her aunt bent underneath to catch the baby and her mother sat on the foot of the bed clucking and complaining. Then it was over. Crowley's son was born. The baby breathed and turned pink and then Bess’s aunt cut the cord with a knife and wiped the baby clean while Crowley laid his wife against the pillows. He insisted that they wrap the baby in the brand new little red blanket that he had bought a few weeks earlier. Then he himself took his son from the barely adequate family midwife and placed him into his wife’s arms. 

Bess gazed down at the baby and smiled. The little fellow had plump cheeks and a button nose. He was a contented baby: he opened his mouth to squawk a few times, and then closed his eyes and settled in his mother’s arms. The summer sun had barely risen, and the room was dim. Between the dimness and the fact that the baby’s eyes had only been open for a moment, Crowley hadn’t been able to figure out what colour his son's eyes were. His hair colour was a mystery too, but that was because he didn’t have enough hair to tell the colour. Crowley had never seen a newborn person before, so he wasn’t sure if there was anything else he was supposed to evaluate. The baby seemed a bit small to him, but his wife seemed to think he was good sized.

“Big beautiful boy,” said Bess. “We’re going to give you such a wonderful life.” She grunted a little and pushed a little. The other women fussed around between her legs. They complained about messes. But a family that ran a laundry was hardly going to run out of towels. Now that the baby was here, Crowley was hardly going to watch the delivery of the afterbirth. He and Bess gazed at their son, taking turns admiring his obvious strength and beauty and predicting his future good fortune. 

Actually, Crowley did most of the talking. Bess was really exhausted. Her skin was damp and pale. Crowley had to help her support the baby in her arms while her aunt and mother did whatever it was they were doing. Bess panted a lot while she pushed out the afterbirth. And, even after Crowley was fairly certain it was done, she was still panting. “Uh,” she said. “Queasy. Tired.”

“You close your eyes,” said Crowley. “You rest.” 

But instead of letting his poor wife rest, or even praising her and congratulating her, both her mother and aunt were complaining of the mess, which was upsetting Bess. “Sorry,” said Bess. “So sorry.” The poor girl was so anxious around her family. Crowley rested his nose in sweat of her brow and murmured words to distract her from her mother's scolding about the extra washing that would need to be done. It was ridiculous really, a laundress complaining about laundry, and on the day of her first grandchild's birth.

"Think of it, my love," Crowley said. "All that laundry, and not a bit of it for you to do." Bess panted and closed her eyes. Then her aunt hauled her legs apart and stuffed a rag between them, and Bess groaned in annoyance. "Uhhhh," she said, as the bed moved. 

Crowley closed his eyes and ignored the fussing and clucking of the women. They told him to take the baby and leave the room. He ignored them. He didn't care a whit about them, and he knew he was going to evict them as soon as they were done cleaning up. In the meantime, he wasn't going to disturb his wife by acknowledging them. He spoke softly into her ear and she seemed to be comforted by his presence. 

She panted, very softly. "Hurts," she said. And then, seemingly in response to her mother’s grousing, she muttered: “Already folded and stacked.” The poor girl seemed so confused and upset.

“No work for you today, my love,” answered Crowley. “You’re going to rest all you want.” How he wished he could afford to take her and the baby away from these horrible people. He kept his eyes closed and he kissed the top of her head while he imagined packing up her few belongings onto the back of the gig and driving her and the baby to a new home in the countryside. The future couldn’t come soon enough. 

He leaned against the headboard and wrapped his arms around to support hers because the baby was starting to slip away as she fell asleep. He felt another thumping of the bed as Bess's damnable aunt climbed on top to adjust some towels again. Bess’s mother cursed, and poor Bess flinched in fear in his arms. 

The bed shook again from the weight of one of those women and Bess made a strange wordless moan. The baby awoke and started to cry. 

Crowley opened his eyes and saw bright red spreading everywhere. He sat up, still supporting the baby with one arm. There was a lot more blood on the bed than he had realized. There was a stack of blood soaked towels on the floor. This was nothing like lambing at all.

"Don't be squeamish," Bess's mother said. "Useless man." There was a tension to her voice that told him that he wasn't being foolish at all. The door slammed open and Bess’s little sister ran into the room with a stack of clean towels. 

Crowley took his newborn son out of his wife's unresisting arms and handed him to his ungrateful grandmother. He told Bess’s mother to take the baby downstairs because his cries were disturbing Bess. Bess was tossing her head and making tiny agitated sounds. 

Crowley grabbed the clean towels away from Bess's little sister. He took a small one and pushed it up into his wife's gaping body, pressing it with his hand as deep and hard as he could, feeling for the strongest source of the pooling warmth and pressing his fingers there. The pain roused her, and she gave a deep moan, and kicked weakly, but she didn't have the strength or coordination to fight him. 

"It's going to be alright my love," he said. But she didn’t answer him. 

One of the things Crowley had learned from all of his years in the stables was the value of calm and decisive action at times like these. He told Bess's aunt to fetch more towels, because the foolish woman was just standing there doing nothing at all. He sent the little sister downstairs to grab more blankets to keep Bess warm. And he kept talking to his wife, in the very way that he had talked to that colicky horse he'd saved a lifetime ago back at Empyrean Hall.

After many long minutes, the bleeding stopped at last. He let up on the pressure gradually. The strength of his fingers was starting to fail, but it had been enough to stop the bleeding. He'd have to pull the towel from her womb, but not yet. He'd wait a bit and then remove it slowly, so he didn't start the bleeding up again. 

Bess was very still, but when he put his cheek against her lips he could feel that she was still breathing. It was just very faint. He got out of bed very carefully, so as not to disturb her, and she didn't seem to notice at all. Her mother and aunt had brought blankets, and he laid them over her. She seemed chilly, and her lips were blue, so he crawled under them and pressed himself against her side to keep her warm. 

In the corner of the room, Bess's little sister started crying and Crowley felt moved to comfort her. 

"Your sister is a little weak," he said. "But she's going to be better soon." Even as he spoke, he began to suspect that it was a lie. 

Three hours later, Bess was gone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bess has her baby with Crowley by her side, but after the birth, she bleeds heavily. Crowley doesn't realize the danger until it is too late. He tries to save her, but fails.


	25. Wild Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley realizes that he cannot leave his son with his late wife's family and he concocts a desperate scheme to drive himself and his newborn over 60 miles to Empyrean Hall to beg for help from Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Toxic/abusive family structure (Bess's family emotionally neglects their children), Mild animal abuse (by Crowley), Mild human abuse (by Bentley), sub-standard care of newborn, and grief.
> 
> Special thanks to Raechem and GayDemonicDisaster for horse related beta work. They taught me how Bentley should behave. This journey would not have happened without them.

Crowley stayed in the bed with his wife until he was absolutely sure that there was no life left in her body. Then he walked downstairs to the main room where Bess’s family lived and ran their laundry business. The front door was open to admit the mid-morning light and also some much needed fresh air. It didn’t matter that a baby had been born to the family in the night, the laundry was in full operation. Two enormous pots were boiling on a raised stone hearth, and Bess’s aunt was stirring at one of the pots with a paddle. Her face was pinched and pale. Bess’s ten year old sister was scrubbing a towel with a washboard. The water in her little tub was red. The two little boys, whose faces were filthy with snot, were wrestling on one of the beds, while their father snored on the other. Bess’s aunt looked up at Crowley as he came down the stairs. 

Crowley felt a bit confused as he looked around the dizzyingly crowded room. The air was thick and hot and every flat surface was stacked with baskets full of laundry. He almost couldn’t find his own son. But, fortunately, the baby was still swaddled in the new red blanket that Crowley had bought for him, and it was that bit of bright colour that let him find the one particular basket that contained the only thing of any value that was left to him this morning. The baby was asleep on the floor, between a pile of sheets and a teetering pile of baskets full of folded garments. 

“She’s gone,” Crowley said. 

The thick air in the room instantly exploded with shrieks. The step-father woke up and started cursing and he didn’t stop until his sister-in-law screamed the terrible news loudly enough for it to penetrate his self-absorbed anger at having been awakened. Then he was silent. He picked up a jug from the floor and started to drink. But by this time his rage and the aunt’s shrieks had terrified the two little boys. They huddled in the corner of their bed, clinging to each other and crying. Neither of the adults went to comfort them or explain. Bess’s ten year old sister stood frozen over her washboard with tears running down her face. Nobody comforted her either. 

In his little basket on the floor, the baby woke up and his cries joined the cries of the little boys. His aunt looked down at him, but didn’t stop her work to pick him up. “Poor little thing,” she said. “Your life will be hard.” Then she looked at Crowley with eyes dark with anger. “Stupid meddling man,” she said. “It’s all your fault. You brought bad luck to our Bess by being in the room. Best you get to work today and earn some money. I’ll find a cheap wetnurse somewhere in the neighbourhood.” 

Crowley looked around the room full of sobbing and unloved children, and he knew that he couldn’t leave his son among them. But what was the alternative? He was in debt, the city was filled with starving people, and this summer had turned out to be even colder than the previous one, and so the coming winter was going to be even more brutal than the last. Crowley imagined himself going to the Queen Mother and begging for her to take him and his son in. She already had a huge family to care for, and the year had been hard on her too, but at least no child living under her roof would ever cry alone. There were worse things in the world than growing up in a tavern that sheltered smugglers and manufactured the premier arse grease for the sodomites of London. At least it was a family business. And a loving family was the most important thing that a child needed. 

It would have broken Bess’s heart to know that her only child was destined to grow up in a tavern. She had wanted their child to grow up with trees and grass and without knowing the smell of alcohol or the stink of the city. But that dream couldn’t happen now. Her beautiful dream was now as dead as she was. At least Crowley had the blue ribbon to tie to the poor baby’s basket. So that he had something pretty to look at. Just like Bess had wanted. As if there really were angels that looked after children and protected them from harm.

The angel. 

As soon as he thought of him, Crowley knew that Aziraphale was the answer. That cowardly spoiled bastard whom he had cursed a thousand times in the last year. That beautiful, compassionate, naive, young man that he still couldn’t help but think about every day. Him. The one who had saved him from despair when he’d been alone in the stables of Empyrean Hall, and who had made his heart sing for two and a half years before abandoning him because he couldn’t endure being married to someone who couldn’t guarantee him a life of unattainably perfect safety. 

Crowley took a deep breath and let his pride and his anger dissolve away. He closed his eyes and everything became clear. Yes. There was one path he could take that could give his son a healthy and happy life. It was a narrow path, but it could work, as long as he didn’t lose his nerve. He turned his back on the distraught family members and went back up the stairs to the room where his wife lay. His mother-in-law was sitting at the foot of the bed, keening over the body of her eldest child. Crowley pitied her, but he knew there were no guarantees given to any parent in the world. Crowley certainly didn’t take for granted that his son would live to see even half as many summers as his own poor mother had. But he damned well knew that he was going to give his child the happiest possible life. 

Crowley knelt on the floor beside the bed and whispered to Bess. "Our son will have everything we imagined," he said. "I swore it, and I will see it through." 

Then he stood up. He put on his tailcoat and checked the front pocket for the blue ribbon. It was there. And it was all he needed to give him courage. When he walked down the stairs, Bess’s mother followed him, asking questions that he didn’t deign to answer. He picked up the basket that contained his son. The women surrounded him and demanded to know what he was doing. 

"I have family in the country," he told them. "I'm taking the baby to them." 

This news was greeted with a howl of despair. All of the females in the room started shouting abuse at him, even the little girl. Bess’s mother was howling: "You're evil!", she cried. "To steal the only happiness left to me on this day.” He ignored her; he tucked his son’s basket under his arm, grabbed his hat, and walked out the door. 

***

The stable was a mile from his wife's home. When Crowley reached it, all the drivers had already departed for the morning so it was the little stableboy who greeted him. Crowley wordlessly set the baby's basket down in a safe corner, then he led Bentley out of the small loose box where she was resting and brought her over to a stall.

Despite Crowley showing up to work late, Bob Wright, the stableman, came out from his office with a broad smile. "Was the baby born today?", he asked. 

Crowley nodded. He pointed to the basket in the corner next to the office door.

The stableman turned around to see the basket on the cobblestone floor. When he looked back towards Crowley his smile had evaporated and his eyes were wide. 

"Bess is gone," said Crowley. "I have family in Oxfordshire. I'm taking him there."

Wright shook his head back and forth. His jaw was opening and closing as if he was trying to speak but couldn’t find the words. But it didn’t matter, because Crowley didn’t have time to listen to whatever he had to say. 

"I'll need as much feed as you can spare," said Crowley to the stableman. "And a loan: fifteen shillings, if possible. I'll work it off when I return."

As Crowley secured his horse in her stall, Wright stood stock-still, looking back and forth between the basket in the corner and Crowley. The stableboy was bending over the basket and peering into it. 

Crowley ignored them both. He climbed up the ladder to the hayloft and pitched some hay down into the hayrack for Bentley to eat. Then he went over to the corner of the loft, where his own straw bed was. He had a wooden box with a lock on it that contained all of his possessions. He opened it and, there, right next to his letters from Aziraphale was his tin of tobacco. He took the tobacco and locked the box up again. Then he took a pair of empty flasks off of a hook on the wall, and slung their straps over his shoulder. As he started down the ladder from the hayloft, he realized that the stable owner was standing at the foot of the ladder, wringing his hands. 

“I’ve put the baby in my office to keep it safe,” said Wright. 

“Right,” said Crowley. “Good idea.” And he reached the bottom of the ladder and pushed past his boss. 

“Now,” said Wright. “Let’s think through--”

But Crowley didn’t hear the rest of what his boss had to say. He had already walked away. As he made his way to the yard at the back of the stable, he took an empty pail off a hook on the wall. As he passed the harness room, he set his flasks and tobacco down on a crate. He could pack them after he watered Bentley. The important thing was to do everything in order, and not get distracted from his plan. But Wright followed after him and stood next to him as Crowley worked the pump, flapping his hands in the air to emphasize his points as he spoke:

"Mr. Crowley," he said. "Your grief is fresh, but you mustn't do anything rash. Mrs. Wright and I will help you in any way we can. We can find a wetnurse for the baby, and extra work for you. Or it can be bottle fed. My second cousin did that and the baby lived." 

Crowley didn't dare look up at Bob Wright. He pumped the handle with as much vigour as he could. He had the feeling that if he met the eyes of anyone compassionate, then something might break in him. And he couldn’t afford to break until after his task was completed. As he watched the water level rise in the pail, he was furiously calculating the distance to Empyrean Hall against Bentley's abilities, the weather, and what he'd heard of the road conditions outside of London.

But how to calculate for the baby? He didn’t know anything about babies. How far could a baby travel in a day? How often would he need to be fed? Bess had said that babies didn't need to be fed at all for the first three days. Something about witches' milk. Was that true? Or was it another mistaken notion, like the very one that had led to the baby being conceived before Crowley had the money to support him? Bess was always so sweetly naive and hopeful. That was why she needed Crowley to take care of her. He was the practical one in their marriage. 

The bucket was full, so Crowley carried it across the yard. Wright was walking behind him, saying something that didn’t matter enough to be worth paying attention to. Crowley decided that the best thing would be to travel as fast as possible and assume that the baby could survive at least the first twelve hours without being fed. 

As he entered the rear door of the stable, Crowley remembered that Bess was dead and that that was why he was making these calculations. He collapsed against the doorframe and closed his eyes. He felt a swirling in his head and a soreness at the back of his throat; he breathed until he was used to these sensations and then he pushed himself up to standing. He stood up straight, shook off a warm weight that was resting on his shoulder, and then slowly carried the bucket of water across the pitching and rolling cobblestone floor of the stable. His feet crunched over the thick bed of straw in Bentley’s stall. He touched her flank and the floor stopped its movement. One step at a time, he made his way along her side with the heavy bucket. 

From on the other side of a thin wooden dividing wall, Crowley heard the stableboy’s high pitched voice and the stable owner’s lower one. But, except for when they said his name, their words were meaningless and distant. All that mattered was his magnificent young horse, because she was the key to his plan. 

Crowley set the bucket down next to Bentley. He smoothed his hand along her neck and buried his face in the soft spot just behind her ear. He breathed in her familiar scent until his breaths slowed. He still felt the swirling in his head and the soreness in his throat. He supposed that these sensations would last for a while. When he brought the pail of water around to her nose, Bentley ignored it in favor of huffing in his ear. He set the pail down, leaned his face against hers and let her nibble at his shoulder while he scratched at hers. Then he offered the water again. 

“Drink, my dear," said Crowley. "You and I are going to have a long day."

". . . no need for hasty decisions, Mr. Crowley . . ." That was Bob Wright, at the back of the stall, now talking to him again. He might have been talking for a while; Crowley wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he needed to mix up some feed from chaff and molasses. There weren’t any oats or bran in London, even for humans, and city horses were lucky if they weren’t turned into food. Crowley fetched another bucket and mixed up the high energy feed that his Bentley needed. He delivered it to her, and then realized that he needed Wright, and that, at some point, Wright had stopped following him. Crowley took a guess and went around the corner and into the office. 

Bob Wright was standing in his office, looking lost. On his desk was the basket with the sleeping infant. 

"Can I borrow the use of a quill and ink?", said Crowley. 

Wright made a funny noise, which Crowley took as a yes, so he unbuttoned his coat, pulled Aziraphale’s faded blue hair ribbon out of his breast-pocket, laid it on the desk, and then bent over it and carefully scratched a letter onto it with his barely educated hand. The ink wicked into the fabric a little, adding tiny hair's-breadth parallel lines to the letter. 

"A man can raise a child," said Wright. Now he was leaning against the doorway, blocking Crowley’s exit to the stables. 

Crowley stared at the letter he had formed on the ribbon. He sucked on his teeth. He'd have to do the other letters smaller than the first one. For names capitalization was important. But the fabric made the letter look wiggly. And, even if he managed to put them in the right order, he wasn’t sure he could form the smaller letters neatly enough for them to be read. Especially with the way the fabric made the ink run. 

"Can you read this?", said Crowley. "Can you tell what it says?"

Wright came over and looked at the ribbon. He tilted his head and squinted. "C”, he said, at last.

Crowley handed Wright the quill. “I need you to write the name ‘Constance’,” said Crowley. 

“Constance?", replied the stableman. "Who is she?"

"My cousin," lied Crowley. Even Bess hadn’t known who Constance was. And now Crowley was depending on Constance, depending on his secret self, praying to her to give him enough womanly instincts to keep his child alive until he gave him to the wealthy man who was once his beloved.

When the stableman was done writing the name, Crowley set the blue ribbon to dry on the desk next to the baby’s basket. Wright still seemed frozen with confusion, so Crowley simply left him in the office and walked down the length of the stable to the small room that was full of tack and wooden boxes. He opened a box of clean muslin strips. He closed his eyes and calculated, then carefully counted out the number he would need for Bentley for the journey. Then he remembered the baby and took four extra, for in case they might be useful in securing rags onto his bottom. He wasn’t sure how big the baby’s rags should be, so he grabbed several different sizes of rags from the bin. He took a bottle of linseed oil and a gallon of molasses for the horse and set them down next to the rest of his supplies. Then he measured out salt and dried peas and dried beet pulp and scooped them into sacks. When he looked up, there was Mr. Wright standing in the doorway of the little harness room. His hands were clasped almost as if he were praying. 

"Perhaps I could write to Constance for you," said Wright. "Where in Oxfordshire does she live?"

"I am going to leave within the hour," replied Crowley. "Food and money are what I need. If you are proposing to help." 

Wright trailed behind Crowley as he walked over to the carriage house, where his gig was. The stableman kept talking, trying to dissuade Crowley from his mad and desperate plan, but Crowley found it easy to ignore him as he inspected and oiled his speedy little vehicle. There wasn’t a single idea that Wright was offering that was better than the plan he had in mind. And, as much as Wright objected to what his employee was doing, when Crowley grabbed one of the shafts of his gig, the old stableman took the other shaft and helped him to drag the gig out of the carriage house and into the yard. 

They went back into the stable. The stableman followed Crowley up to the loft and helped him to fill sacks and nets with chaff and hay. They carried them down and laid them in the seat of the gig. They would go on the back later. But first the box would have to be secured to the platform. Then the sacks and nets could go on top. The four-foot tall T shaped bar with the leather straps was going to earn its keep this week. 

When Crowley and his boss came back into the stable to get Bentley ready for her journey, there, at the far end, was Mrs. Wright. She had extracted the baby from his basket and was walking up and down the length of the building, holding the swaddled infant in her arms.

"Poor Mr. Crowley!", Mrs. Wright cried, when she saw him. "Poor dear Bess!" And, as Crowley drew near her, she let loose a torrent of words that seemed designed to break Crowley: 'tragedy' and 'motherless babe' and 'God's plan'. As she spoke, Crowley felt that he was either going to burst into tears or explode in rage, and he knew that if he cried, he would lose all his strength, so he chose rage. 

"God's plan?!", he said. "Bollocks to God’s blasted plan! God obviously doesn't care what happens to me or my child! We are all on our own, Mrs. Wright. Best we accept the truth."

She gasped at his sacrilege, but at least she was silent. Crowley stalked past her. He filled one flask with water and the other he gave to the stable boy to fill with gin from the Wrights’ kitchen. He grabbed a bunch of straps and odd bits of tack out of a crate and tossed them into the gig. He wasn’t sure exactly how he was going to secure the bags of chaff and the baby’s basket, but leather straps in a variety of lengths would give him options. When the boy returned from the kitchen also bearing a lump of hard cheese and a bunch of carrots, Crowley accepted them wordlessly.

When Crowley returned to the tack room to find a crate to pack his supplies in, Wright approached him with a little bag which proved to contain a few coins. Crowley opened it and counted them out and calculated. Then he nodded. It would be enough to pay for Bentley’s lodgings on the way there and back. Barely. Things were tight even for Bob Wright. Crowley tucked the money in the inside pocket of his coat. Then Wright handed over a small bottle. 

“Horse tonic,” he said. “My cousin is a collier, and he swears by this formula. Put it into a pint of ale if she needs perking up.” 

Crowley packed everything carefully into an empty wooden box, wrapping the breakables in the muslin strips and then packing the rags around everything so nothing would shift. He slipped his tin of tobacco into his pocket. He took the box to the gig and secured it to the platform in back. Then he stacked his hay and chaff on top and tied them down with leather straps. 

While he worked Mrs. Wright stood next to him and nattered on. "The babe may die before you get there,” she said. “And you're likely to kill yourself and horse in the trying.”

He shook her off, headed back inside, and started to tack up Bentley. But Mrs. Wright, still cradling the baby in her arms, continued to scold him over the low wall of the stall.

"Come away from that horse, Anthony Crowley, you fool," she cried. "Let my husband ready her. You need to learn how to care for a newborn." 

The next fifteen minutes was a series of admonitions and instructions from Mrs. Wright. The baby needed to be kept warm, but not smothered; his head shouldn't be allowed to rock about at all, he needed to have his napkin changed twice a day at least; he needed to be fed from a goat or a woman at least four times in a day or he would die. He should be fed every two hours if it was possible. If a goat was used, the goat's teat needed to first be washed with a perfectly clean muslin cloth wetted with its own fresh milk. "I don't dare give you the laudanum," she said. "And no matter how it cries, don't let anyone else give it any medicine to quieten it; Even a drop could kill it. They have to be at least a month old before it’s safe to use laudanum."

Eventually Bentley was hitched up. The baby was carefully packed in the basket with cloths packed around so his head couldn't move. The basket was secured to the dashboard of the gig with borrowed pieces of tack. They were ready to go. 

Mrs Wright offered a blessing in the name of the God that Crowley didn’t believe in. But when Mr. Wright handed over the blue hair ribbon with Crowley's other name on it, Crowley took it with reverence. He touched it to his cheek. The scent of Aziraphale had faded over the years but there was the memory of it. He wrapped the blue ribbon around the handle of the basket and tied it fast. Then he picked up the reins and started out of the yard with the basket between his feet and the supplies lashed to the back. 

No sooner had they turned into the street than the baby started to cry. 

"It's a bad world," he told his son. 

***

Six hours later, the baby was having his third bout of inconsolable crying. A wind had started up and the air temperature was dropping. It was the middle of August, but it might as well be autumn. The world was cold and cruel and it was trying to kill everyone. The roads were a disaster. The harsh eight month winter had carved great big holes and gullies everywhere. Crowley had twice come to entirely impassable sections of road and had to double back for miles before he found a way through. 

Now, not yet half-way through his journey to Empyrean Hall, Crowley pulled over to the side of the road and reached down to feel the baby's cheek again. His skin seemed cold. What was too cold? But he was crying, so surely that was good? Bentley hung her head down. She was blowing hard. A froth of sweaty lather dripped from the collar and breeching as steam rose from her flanks. Crowley couldn't stop for more than a minute or two or she'd catch a chill. He was torn between caring for the baby and the horse. But at least he knew Bentley's limits. He had about five or six miles before she was completely exhausted. The next village was about three miles away. As long as the roads didn’t get any worse, she could make it. 

Crowley put his finger on the baby's other cheek. Cold. Definitely cold. And his cry was getting weaker.

"Right," he said to his son. "I'll put you under my coat." 

He reached into the basket and tried to pull the baby out, but the baby’s head started to loll and that was definitely something that he wasn't supposed to allow, so he rearranged his hands and tried again, and this time, the baby came out, but the red blanket stayed behind in the basket, so now he had a baby with a rag on its bottom, but his back and chest were exposed to the unseasonably cold air and his limbs were flailing in obvious anger. Crowley bent over the basket and extracted the blanket with his teeth, and then carried baby and blanket up to the seat of the gig. He spat the blanket onto the seat and laid his son on top of it. Then, realizing that the blanket couldn't be wrapped around the baby until it was first laid flat, he picked up the baby with both hands and tried to figure out a way to straighten the blanket with his elbow. 

Bentley huffed and shook her whole body with a loud jangling of her harness. 

The baby cried louder. His little hand flailed and hit Crowley’s cheek. The tiny hand was cold, which was bad. Crowley cursed continuously as his son cried, but in the end he managed to wrap him up, more or less neatly. He tried several different ways of tucking the baby into his coat, all of which seemed likely to smother him. Finally, he opened his coat and held his son upright against his chest with one arm and took the reins in hand with the other, and guided his poor animal back onto the much rutted road. 

It took nearly an hour to make the last three miles. The slow pace was at least good for cooling Bentley down. The baby stopped crying after the first ten minutes, which was good, but he was awkward to hold. Crowley had to stop twice to change arms. It didn't make any sense. Women held babies for hours while they worked one handed, and they were supposed to be the weaker sex. When Crowley finally reached the inn and saw a woman standing nearby, he nearly wept. He pulled up, shouting, threw the brake, scrambled out of the gig without dropping his son, and then held the baby out to her. 

Fortunately, the young woman tolerated the imposition. But before Crowley had even managed to drive into the stable, the baby had started squalling again, and with renewed vigour. By the time Crowley had finished talking to the stableman, a crowd of women had gathered in the street to look at the baby. Before he could even start to unhitch Bentley, they were peppering him with questions. None of his curt answers satisfied them at all, but Bentley pulled on her headcollar and snorted, stomped and danced about. The women, sensing danger, backed away from her and from Crowley. They surrounded the baby, made a plan, and then dispersed to execute it. An old woman took charge of the crying baby; she fixed Crowley with a suspicious and frosty glare as she followed him into the stable. 

The stable was large and clean and airy. For Bentley there was a clean stall with a thick layer of fresh straw already laid down, a small miracle that made Crowley think that he just might succeed on his mad quest. The important thing was not to lose his nerve. He'd nearly fallen apart this morning when Mrs Wright had offered him condolences. Until he reached his goal, Crowley needed to make sure that everyone around him was too frightened of him to dare to speak any words that might break the fragile crust that had formed around his broken heart. 

Crowley ignored the old woman who was holding his child in favor of unhitching Bentley and drying her off with a twisted wisp of straw. Bentley expressed her annoyance at the baby's loud cries by constantly fidgeting as Crowley worked. Two stablehands appeared and pushed the gig into a corner of the stable. They glared at Crowley and argued with the old woman before finally starting to move horses out of the stalls that were nearest to the screaming baby. A little girl soon appeared, together with a very aggrieved looking woman who demanded two shillings from Crowley before sitting on a hay bale and putting the baby to her breast. She grunted a lot as she adjusted and readjusted both baby and teat. The baby kept on crying. Crowley threw a rug over Bentley and climbed up to the loft to pitch some straw down.

When he descended, the baby was finally quiet and suckling, and the temporary nurse started asking the very same questions that the other women had asked earlier. When Crowley didn't answer, she directed her inquiries to the baby. Crowley stuffed dry straw underneath Bentley's rug. Once he had enough shoved under to let her dry the rest of the way, Crowley answered one of the woman's questions by marching to the gig and fetching a handful of rags for the baby's bottom. Then he went outside to where the stablehands were standing with all of the other horses. Crowley imposed on them again to request a bucket of boiling water. 

He returned to the gig and fetched clean muslin strips and liniment from his box and bandaged Bentley's legs. His son’s temporary nurse huffed at him. When she was done feeding the baby she took care of cleaning his bottom and wrapping it in a fresh rag and then swaddling him into a neat bundle. The baby started crying while she was cleaning him, but he settled once she finished wrapping him up. Now that the baby was silent and still, Bentley allowed the woman to approach. The woman stood right over Crowley, one hand holding the baby on her shoulder and the other arm akimbo. She was undoubtedly scowling at him, but he refused to look up from Bentley’s legs to meet her eyes. He couldn’t take the risk of losing his nerve. 

"How many nights do you plan on needing me for?", said the woman. 

"Just the one," said Crowley. 

"And what will you be doing with this poor child tomorrow?"

"Driving," said Crowley. 

The woman told him he was a fool. Then she pointed through the open door of the stable toward where her own home was. She took the swaddled baby and marched away. Crowley followed her out, watching to see which house it was that she took his child into. He gritted his teeth. He hated to be out of sight of his son, but there was no other way. 

He went back into the stable. He requested a loose box for Bentley, and moved her to it. When the stablehands brought the bucket of boiling water, he used some of it to mix with tap water from the yard in order to make up a bucket of tepid water for Bentley. He gave it to her a few sips at a time. When she was no longer desperate for water, he fetched supplies from the gig and mixed up a complicated and sub-optimal feed in a third bucket. He added some hot water to turn it into mush and some salt and a cup of molasses to make it palatable. It wasn't anything like the warm bran mash that Bentley deserved after her heroic day, but he was lucky to have anything to give her at all. 

There was plenty of hot water left over to rinse the filthy rag that had come off of his infant. Crowley used a stick to pick the rag up off the floor where the nurse woman had thrown it. He put it into the steaming bucket. Then he threw a bar of soap in and stirred.

Bentley stuck her head over the box’s partition and whinnied at him with impatience. 

“You'll have to wait for your supper to cool, my love,” he told her. 

When her food was ready he took it over to her and then he tossed some hay down from the loft and carried it to her manger. She finished off the bucket then collapsed into her straw bed and closed her eyes. He wanted to lie against her, to feel her warmth, to feel not alone. But if he did lie against her, he might not get up again. And there was no room in his carefully calculated plan for him to slow down. If he did, then Bentley or the baby might not make it to their goal unbroken. 

The goal was Aziraphale. Aziraphale generally came home in mid-August before joining his own family to travel to their yearly hunting party at the house of some other ridiculously wealthy family. If Aziraphale wasn’t at home already, he’d be brought home quickly after Crowley spun the lie that he was planning to tell. Once he was in Aziraphale's presence, he would figure out the rest. Crowley was clever. He'd find the right words to convince his former lover. Some combination of cajoling and entreaties, and, if necessary, outright threats. Probably threats wouldn’t be needed. There was something still there. Crowley had felt it, even on that last, horrible, day. Aziraphale’s love hadn’t faded away completely. It was there, it was just overmatched by his fear. And if there wasn’t enough love, then his compassion for children could be awakened. Crowley was almost certain he wouldn’t have to threaten blackmail. Aziraphale would take care of his son. It would just be needed for a few years. Just a few years until the weather turned normal again and Crowley could afford to support his child in a healthy life. 

Crowley stirred the baby's filthy rag around in the bucket with the stick, pulled it out, wrung it with his hands, rinsed it under the pump, and called it clean enough. He hung the rag over the shaft of his gig. Then he washed and rinsed all the buckets and put them away. He mucked out the stall Bentley has been standing in. Then he picked up her harness and started to wipe it. At this point, he realized that all the men and boys in the stable were watching him as they worked at their own tasks. He’d probably be the talk of the town tonight. 

Crowley sat down on a stool next to Bentley’s box to work at cleaning the horse sweat off the leather. His hands were shaking. But he forced himself through every task. He ignored the whispers from the other men. It didn’t matter what the people in one little town thought of him. What mattered was his son’s future. When he was done with his work, Crowley crawled up into the hayloft with his precious box of supplies. He curled himself up in front of it and stared at the wall until blessed sleep finally came. 

***

The second day of travel was worse than the first. The weather was warmer, but the baby cried harder than before, and barely ever stopped crying, even when in arms. Crowley spent seven hours traveling twenty-five miles over rutted roads that required Bentley to constantly weave back and forth. He never prayed, exactly, but he did invoke the privy organs of every saint. 

Bentley was constantly shaking her head, irritated by the baby's howling, and she went slower and slower as the day wore on, finally refusing to pull, so that, for the final three miles, Crowley had to get out of the gig and drag her along one handed while he held the crying baby in a basket in his other hand. 

"You are not going to die," he told the baby. "You are my son. And in our family, we don’t ever give up, no matter what. So you are not going to die today."

Crowley was ten miles from Empyrean Hall when he finally stopped for the day at a small inn. 

There was a barely acceptable stable, but there was no wetnurse available in the little town. While he waited for a she-goat to be found, Crowley did what was necessary to keep Bentley from catching a chill, covering her with straw and a rug, and getting her warm water and mixing up her food. The infant’s constant wailing made the horse anxious. She scowled, her ears pinned flat back in annoyance, tail swishing, stomping her feet as she ate.

Despite the years he’d worked in a barn, Crowley knew almost nothing about milking, and on his first attempt to put the baby to the she-goat, the goat nearly kicked his son’s head in. At Crowley’s insistence, a more placid she-goat was found. Then Crowley begged the innkeeper's wife to help him. She was angry at him and asked him why he didn’t have a bottle. But, at last, she did some complicated juggling of animal and infant and managed to make the crying stop. 

After his feeding, the baby slept for an hour and Bentley calmed down. There was nowhere for her to rest but a stall, so Crowley filled one with as much straw as he could. Then the baby woke again and Crowley ran inside the inn and begged the innkeeper's wife to help him. He had to wait until she was done with her work, and so he paced the yard with the baby squalling in his arms. 

This time, the innkeeper’s wife taught Crowley how to put the baby to the teat. And he did it: supporting the head, squeezing the first drops into baby's mouth, putting the teat in just the right distance, working the teat to get the milk flowing, watching the baby for signs of swallowing and for signs of choking, all the while keeping the animal pinned against the wall with his shoulder. His back ached with the awkward position, but he held his child until he was done eating, and then he learned to pat the baby’s back to burp him. 

The innkeeper's wife showed him how to fold a wind-stiffened white rag into a proper napkin for the baby and how to wrap the baby neatly in the blanket and set him in the basket. Crowley made a nest of straw for the basket, and wrapped the basket in his long wool coat, leaving a little opening to keep the air from getting stale, so the baby wouldn't smother. 

By this time, Bentley was lying on her side in a bed of straw with no bandages on her legs at all. She had her eyes closed. Her face was sunken and her breathing labored. Crowley knelt over a steaming pail, washing the baby’s foul napkin, as he watched over the coat-wrapped basket, the box of supplies, and the exhausted horse. The innkeeper's wife brought him a bowl of thin stew, a piece of hard cheese, and a cup of small beer. It was the first real meal he'd had in twenty-four hours. When he was done with it, he lay in the straw and stared at the basket with the blue ribbon on its handle. He thought about Aziraphale, and realized that his stupid heart still loved the man even though Aziraphale had discarded him. His wife was dead, and he loved her just the same too. He felt tears of despair rising in his eyes and realized that it was safer not to think too much. He couldn’t afford any weakness until his task was done. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of horses breathing and shifting around in the stable. 

When the baby cried again, Crowley caught the goat, washed its teat with its own milk and a clean muslin cloth, and then wrestled baby and goat into position and spent half an hour feeding the baby. He settled the baby back into his basket, curled up in the straw around the basket, and closed his eyes. A half hour later, the baby cried again. Every time the baby cried, Bentley twitched and snorted her displeasure, and the other horses in the stable stamped and fretted. But Crowley liked the cries, because when the baby cried, he knew what to do, and his body would become animated. 

Bentley got to her feet again in the middle of the night. Crowley brought her water and hay. In between baby feedings, by the light of a lantern, he wrapped her legs in fresh stable bandages. 

***

By the time the sun rose, Crowley had lost track of how many times he'd wrestled the goat. During one feeding, just before sunrise, the baby started to choke and spit. Crowley fumbled and tried again and the baby choked again. He couldn't figure out what he was doing wrong. He didn't dare try again, so he spent a quarter-hour holding the baby on his forearm with his little face pointed down, patting his back, listening to him sputter and spit and howl, and praying that he hadn't drowned his son. He tried to remember the lullaby that Bess had taught him, but the words just turned into tears, so instead he just begged his child to live.

“You’ll be a rich man’s son,” he said. “Live for one more day, and you’ll be a rich man’s son.” 

The innkeeper's wife came into the stable, looking disheveled. She took the baby from him, looked him over, and listened to Crowley's explanation of how he had choked. Then she milked the goat, and put the baby to the less full teat. "The milk always comes in strongest just before dawn," she explained. "It was coming too fast for the baby to swallow." Then she took the pail of goat milk and left him alone. 

Crowley set the baby in the basket and lay in the straw between Bentley and his son. He drifted in and out of sleep. People started to come into the stable. He dreamed of Bess. She told him ridiculous stories and laughed a lot. When the baby woke again, he fed him, with shaking hands and with a constant roaring sound in his ears. As he put the baby back in the basket, Crowley perceived that there were other men about, and that they were standing and whispering about him. He turned his back to them, and curled up in the straw with a horse blanket over his head to stop the light. 

The sunlight drifted across the stable floor, and at last it was impossible for him to sleep. He fed and watered Bentley, then took her out for some air and checked her paces. She was stiff and exhausted but not lame. He gave her some chaff mixed with molasses and salt. Someone came in to ask whether he would stay another day. He asked for a few more hours. Just after three PM, he settled up with the innkeeper. The innkeeper’s wife gave him a cup of strong tea. He drank it, and then had another. Then he got to work. 

Ten miles to Aziraphale. Ten miles to the man who had raised his hopes and then dashed them. A little over two hours at a slow walk, if all went well. He knew the roads in this area. Which was good, because though the tea had made him jittery, he could barely keep his eyes open. 

There was a field, some three miles away from the gatehouse at Empyrean Hall, where he and Aziraphale had often used to make love, back when they were young and naive and full of belief in each other. The hair ribbon and the name would suffice to call Aziraphale to the field. Crowley would hand the baby over at the gatehouse and lie in wait for Aziraphale there. Ready to cajole, to wheedle, to beg, to blackmail, to suck him off; to exchange whatever remained of Aziraphale’s affections toward him for a good life for his newborn son. 

Unfortunately, Bentley clearly didn’t understand the harsh bargain that Crowley was making. She’d had enough. She fought him as he tacked her up. She ducked her head and skittered away when he put the collar on. She filled her belly with air when he tried to tighten the girth. Then, when she was finally in her harness, she planted her feet and wouldn’t move from the stable. Crowley pulled and dragged at her bridle, and, in return, she pushed him over a hanging bollard. He tumbled and landed on his arse in a pile of manure in the next stall. 

Fortunately, Mr. Wright had given him something for just such a contingency. So he stomped over to the gig, pulled the bottle of emergency horse tonic out of the box, mixed it up with a pint of warm ale and fed it to her. Then he fed the baby one last time and carefully packed him into his basket. He tied the basket to the dashboard of the gig, tightening the straps with shaking hands. 

By the time he returned to Bentley, the horse tonic had done its work. Too well. Bentley was prancing in her stall and pulling at her rope violently. Her eyes were wide and wild. She danced and snorted impatiently as he brought her over to the gig, and she nearly kicked him as he adjusted the breeching. The reason he was taking longer than usual was because his hands were shaking from the lack of sleep and the strong tea on an empty stomach, but he could hardly explain that to the horse. 

As he was adjusting the last strap, Bentley started dancing from side to side, bumping herself against the shafts of the gig. Crowley cursed at her and smacked her, whereupon she started pulling, with the brake still on, and the wheel ran over his foot. An incredible pain blossomed in his foot, and he suddenly couldn’t put weight on it anymore. He hopped over to the side of the gig and used his arms to drag himself up into the seat, cursing again when he realized that he was befouling the seat with the horse manure that was still on his backside. Then he cursed the crowd that had gathered to watch his torment, released the brake, and careened out onto the road. Gritting his teeth against the pain of his (hopefully only bruised) foot, Crowley steered Bentley toward Empyrean Hall. 

They went fast, but, most of the time, both wheels of the gig remained on the road. Bentley wasn’t as careful as usual to dodge around low places in the road, so they bumped along a lot more than they should. The baby woke and started screaming, but at least his little head and body were packed firmly enough that they didn’t budge in the basket even with the fast motion of the gig. At one bend in the road, a lurry nearly collided with them head on, and Crowley wrenched Bentley over to the shoulder just barely in time. A four wheeled carriage couldn’t have made it, but the gig did, one wheel lifting off the road as it skittered to the side. 

They reached a well-repaired section of road and Bentley decided to pick up the pace. They were soon travelling at an immense speed, nearly twenty miles per hour. Bentley was obviously feeling no pain. Her head was high and she seemed a bit calmer now that he was letting her trot as fast as she liked. The motion of the gig on the smooth road soothed the poor exhausted baby back to sleep. Crowley was tired too. The effects of the tea were wearing off and the throbbing in his foot was no longer sufficient to keep him awake. He reached into his pocket, opened a tin and crammed a large plug of tobacco into his cheek.

The tobacco worked almost instantly, and, as he sped along the road at ludicrous speeds, Crowley’s mind started to speed up as well. Not only did his driving reflexes improve, but he realized there was a flaw in his plan. The gatekeeper would recognize his distinctive red hair and scarred face. He needed to disguise himself. In the wooden box behind his seat was a tin of blackening dubbin that he used to maintain Bentley’s harness. Without taking his eyes off the road, Crowley reached back, shoved the sack of chaff aside, threw back the box's lid, and extracted the tin of black grease. 

He put his tall hat in between his knees. With one hand, and his teeth, he managed to pry the lid off the tin. The lid flew away and clattered on the road behind him. He held the tin in his teeth and took a dollop of the black stuff with his free hand, and smeared it into his hair. He scooped out more and more of the grease, filling his hair with it, and then he turned his head and, with his teeth, threw the empty tin into the road. He could taste the foul grease in his mouth. It made him gag. As he drove his nearly-out-of-control horse, Crowley ran his greased fingers through his hair again and again, trying to get even coverage, trying not to let a bit of the red hair show. Before he’d smoothed in the last big glob, he remembered his scar and smeared the grease all over it. 

After only a little less than a half-hour of travel, the ten miles were nearly covered and Crowley came to the bend in the road that was a quarter mile from the gatehouse of Empyrean Hall. 

"No more goats for you, my little one," said Crowley. "I suspect the gatekeeper is a secret papist. He has a new baby almost every year. If his wife can't nurse you, no woman can." 

A tenth of a mile from the gatehouse, crazed with pain and tea and tobacco, and with one hand covered in black grease, he pulled back on Bentley to try to slow her down. She fought him, tossing her head and pulling the gig from side to side on the road. The baby, miraculously, stayed asleep. 

Up ahead, the door of the gatehouse opened, and the gatekeeper, Mr. Tyler, walked out of the door, with a little spit dog at his heels.

Crowley gripped his hat between his knees, grabbed the reins with one hand and yanked back, pulling the brake with the other hand. As they skidded to a halt in front of the gatekeeper, the gatekeeper said:

“Your horse, Mister. There’s something far wrong with your horse.”

“Is Mister Aziraphale Fell at home today?”, asked Crowley.

“Aye,” replied the gatekeeper. “He is at home. But, Mister--”

Crowley leaned down and unlatched the leather straps that tied the basket to the dashboard. He lifted the basket up and held it out. The gig was being wrenched from side to side. Bentley had froth and blood on her cheeks. If he didn’t let her move soon, she’d break the shafts. 

"Give this to Mister Aziraphale Fell of Empyrean Hall without delay!", Crowley said, as he thrust the basket at the confused man. 

As soon as he felt the basket's weight taken from his hand, Crowley loosened the reins and released the brake. Bentley threw herself against her collar and dragged them away. 

“But!”, cried Tyler. “Your horse! It’s bleeding!”

  
  
  



	26. Creaks and Rumbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen and the Duke talk Crowley out of doing something impulsive. Aziraphale and Crowley meet at their inn in Tadfield and have a frank conversation about Aziraphale's plans for Adam's future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW-- Crowley has a flashback to his rape
> 
> Chapter rated E for Emotionally Unsatisfying Intimacy

  
  


"The problem," said Crowley, as he handed over the letter, "Is that she never has changed in all these years. Me, I'm always changing, but she is still the exact same person she was when she was eighteen years old. Just as much of a coward as ever. But I'm done with her this time. I'm going down to Tadfield this week and I'm going to tell her off, and that will be the end. Now that I can afford to take care of Adam, there's no need for me to put up with her anymore." 

Crowley didn’t truly require help reading anymore; over the past few years he had achieved enough fluency that, unless the handwriting was egregious, he could struggle through his correspondence on his own. But he found that reading letters from his ex-husband was such an emotionally fraught experience that he was better off hearing them read aloud for the first time by a calm and sensible friend.

"Well," said the Queen Mother. "You've certainly given her a chance. We like to think that social class doesn't matter for girls like us, but it does, truly. And maybe now that your romance with this aristocrat is finally over, you'll be willing to take a good hard look at what you do have right here in London."

"What I have?"

"Lady Windward has been waiting for you nearly as patiently as you have been waiting for your nob."

"It’s not love," said Crowley. "Between me and Lady Windward. 'Tis uh . . . companionship and we get along and we trust each other. 'S not love. Love's all . . ."

"Painful?", said the Queen Mother. "Frustrating? Unequal?"

"Eyggahhah," said Crowley. He flapped his hands at the Queen Mother. "Just read the letter."

_My Dearest,_

_I know you will find it hard to forgive me for starting this letter with such a familiar salutation, but it is still true that there is no one dearer to my heart than you. My life’s greatest sorrow is that there is no way for me for me to share with you all that I have in a way that you would accept and that the law would respect. I find that, without a loved one to share it with, my position is a burden to me._

_But it is not a burden I can lay down. As much as you urge me to simply abdicate my responsibilities, I have sure knowledge that my likely successor would instantly use his power to pursue his vendetta against me even unto my death. If you were in my orbit, your life would not be spared. After our deaths, my blameless relatives would also be left destitute._

_In summary, I am trapped in a web of obligations, debts, and entailments. Expert solicitors have assured me that my affairs cannot be substantially rearranged until my death or until the day that my adult son and I jointly dissolve the estate._

_I am devising my escape. My plan will take ten years to come to fruition, by which point it may be too late for me to expect to be welcomed into your arms. I respect that I tried your patience sore in recent years and I hereby release you from any obligation to me. If you choose to leave our connection behind, know that it is my most fervent hope that you are able to find another love, perhaps with someone with whom you may make a public covenant._

_By our next meeting, in mid-summer in Tadfield, my plans will be set irrevocably into motion and I will reveal them to you. Though I feel that my decision is for the greater good, I recognize that when you understand what I have done, you may choose to never speak to me again. I will honour your decision because of the great esteem in which I hold you._

_Yours, First and Always,_

_A_

"What does that even mean, great plan?", said Crowley. "Ten years from now? What happens in ten years?"

The Queen Mother furrowed her brow and stared up at the ceiling, as if she could see through it to the room where her grandchildren slept. She muttered their names and counted something on her fingers. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth. 

"What?", said Crowley.

"Your son's eleventh birthday is this summer, isn't it?", she said. "Which means that in ten years he'll be of age to inherit."

"By God!", said Crowley, "She's planning to steal my son!"

***

Aziraphale walked into the nursery of Empyrean Hall at eight o’clock at night. The summer light was hours from fading. The governess was sitting in a rocking chair and reading a book, but Michael and Uriel's daughters were already sound asleep in their beds. Asleep, they looked like angels. And, even awake, they were perfectly tolerable, because they hadn't yet acquired all of the skills at cruelty and deception that their parents had. Aziraphale liked to think that the interactions he had with them from time to time were making some small difference in tipping them toward kindness. 

"Any trouble falling asleep tonight?", he asked.

"Only a little," said the governess. "They're settling down at last."

Their brother had died nine months ago, and the girls were finally healing. The same couldn't yet be said for Aziraphale. The bed where the little boy had slept had been removed from the room and all of his toy soldiers and his rocking horse and his rag doll were gone, so as not to excite the girls or make them melancholy. The idea was to make it as if he had never existed at all. But the rest of the furniture and toys hadn't quite been rearranged to fill in the gaps, and the space where his bed had been was still conspicuously empty. 

Aziraphale walked over to the empty bed space and stood in it. He tried to imagine Adam sleeping here, but of course that was ridiculous. Adam was too old for a nursery. He would get his own room from the start. And wouldn't that be easier? No direct comparisons for anyone. 

It didn't matter much anyway. Michael and Uriel and the girls would be moving out of Empyrean Hall as soon as Aziraphale claimed the earlship. The polite fiction would be that Aziraphale was going to find a wife and start his own family, but that wasn't true. After many months of contemplation, Aziraphale had finally come to the conclusion that he would never marry a woman. He knew what his heart could take and what it couldn't. And, while he was fairly sure that he could physically manage to sire his own child, he knew for certain that he couldn't bear to bury one of his own. And that was a sad inevitability, because his bloodlines were cursed. Unlike his ancestors, Aziraphale was too soft to bear the heartache of having children that he knew were unlikely to survive. And even if he was a stronger man, Aziraphale could never be so cruel as to inflict such a curse on whichever poor woman would be the mother of his doomed sons. There was only one ethical choice: the miserable and cursed Fell line must end with him. 

“Good night," he said to the governess, and he took his leave and walked down to the ground floor of Empyrean Hall, to the rooms where his uncle lay dying.

***

Five days earlier, in London

Crowley stood in the Queen Mother's bedroom, fuming about Aziraphale's latest attempt to control his life through his son. He was calculating how soon he could get to Tadfield. Bentley was seventeen years old and she would need at least four days to get there. The question was whether to try to steal Adam away before Aziraphale could arrive, or to simply tell Adam's parents the truth preemptively so that they wouldn't support Aziraphale's ruse. 

"But what if I tell them the truth and his parents still say yes to the whole mad plan?", Crowley said. "Everyone turns selfish when there's this much money at stake, and they won't be an exception. They'll let Empyrean Hall turn Adam into a monster. Then he'll turn out just like the rest of them. Obviously, I have to be prepared to hide him.” He looked up at the Queen Mother. "Can I keep him here with your grandchildren for a few weeks, just till I can get us a better situation?" 

The Queen Mother set down the letter and got up and opened the door of the bedroom. She shouted down the hall, not like she normally would, but in a deep carrying voice: "Paul! Will you get in here and help me talk to Constance? She's gone mad."

Duke Bottomly entered the bedroom, looking very confused. 

"Shut the door and lock it," said Richard Chancy, without a trace of the Queen Mother's feminine vocal qualities. 

Crowley watched Duke Bottomly transform into Paul Waxdall. His face rearranged itself; lines of concern grew on his forehead. "What is it?", he said, looking from Crowley to his partner. 

"Her earl," Richard Chancy said. "Is offering to adopt her son, give the boy the whole inheritance, make him a peer. And this fool is trying to think of a way to ruin it. Talk to her, Paul." Crowley could tell that the use of the female pronoun was not so much affectionate as condescending. 

"Is it true?", said Waxdall. “He wants to make your son his heir?” His voice sounded almost exactly as it usually did. Perhaps it was because Duke Bottomly wasn't so very different from Paul Waxdall. He sank onto the bed and looked up at Crowley, who was nodding impatiently and rocking from foot to foot. "That's incredible," said Waxdall.

"Can it be even done?", said Chancy. He looked to his partner. "Isn't there another heir? The cousin. And he has his own son, right?"

"A son, even an adopted one, does have the highest claim to the inheritance," said Waxdall. "His claim would preempt that of any cousins unless there is specific language in the entail which specifies that only blood relatives can inherit, which often is the case. I'm sure the _future_ earl has had his lawyers review it. He wouldn't have said anything to Constance unless he was absolutely sure that this could be done."

"She's not adopting him," said Crowley. "She's . . . arrrrrrr . . . legitimizing him. Because she's been pretending he was hers all along. The old earl, the one that's dying, thinks that Adam is her bastard."

"What happens to the cousins, then?", said Chancy. "Can they contest this? Could they cause danger for Contance's son in the future?"

"The cousin's son died this winter," said Crowley. "But I don't think it matters. She clearly plans to dissolve the estate to get the money so she can flee to France and live out her sad solitary sodomite life in peace and she needs her adult heir’s signature to do it. She needs a boy that she can groom and convince to follow her plans. She wants to take my son because she doesn't want to have to start her own family and wait all those years for her own boy to grow up. If she'd have thought of this twelve years ago when she left me, then she'd be sending her own son off to school right now and she wouldn't have any need of me at all."

"I don't think that's very fair of you," said Chancy. "You said yourself that your nob still has warm feelings for you."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "But what are they worth, really, if she's willing to do this to me? 'S why I'm leaving her, isn't it?"

"She's not doing anything to you, you insufferable girl!", said Chancy, tearing at his hair. "She's raising your son to the peerage. A great big ship stuffed with gold has just come into port with your son's name on it, and you're firing a cannon at it from shore! Paul! Say something to stop me before I strangle her!" 

Paul Waxdall held up a hand for peace. "Anthony Crowley," he said. "What reasonable objection could you possibly raise to this plan?"

Crowley looked down at the floor, defeated. His only allies had turned on him. 

"You can't let your feelings of jealousy get in the way of an unheard-of opportunity for your son," said Chancy. 

" 'M not jealous!", said Crowley. "Don't want a title or an estate or any of that. Don't want to be anything like those nobs. 'M a man of business. Like you are. We don't get inheritances. We use our own brains and our mettle to make our own way. 'S honorable. And I'm proud of it. If the king himself burst out of your dresser and tried to bestow a title on me, I'd tell him to stuff it. Happier without it."

"I don't believe that you're jealous of the money or the title," said Chancy. "I think you still want your nob to love you in the same uncomplicated way he used to when you were both younger. And now that he's doing this for your son, you feel jealous. Because you want that love bestowed upon you."

" 'S not true," said Crowley. And he knew it wasn't true. Not entirely. But he also knew that the larger truth was too painful and awful for him to face. So he stared at the floor while his friends extracted promises from him that he would not sabotage this for Adam, that he would talk it over with Aziraphale, and that he would put Adam's future ahead of his own comfort. As if he hadn't already been doing that for nearly eleven years. 

***

Aziraphale found Michael sitting by himself in Gabriel’s study. The two of them had come to an uneasy truce. The past nine months of shared grief had made them both too exhausted to snipe at each other, so they had developed a dull and economical way of speaking. 

"How is he?", said Aziraphale. He jerked his head in the direction of Uncle Gabriel’s room.

"Same," said Michael. "My mother is with him now. She thinks he'll survive this crisis."

Aziraphale exhaled. 

"Only a matter of time, though," said Michael. "He won't make it to the new year; be surprised if he gets to autumn."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I think we're down to weeks at this point."

"We two should probably make plans for the next steps, then," said Michael. He pulled a decanter of amber liquid from a cabinet. Aziraphale nodded and Michael poured out two tumblers. They sat in armchairs in their Uncle Gabriel's office, drinking as the sun slowly set. 

"I've got to head up to London this coming week on some business anyway," said Aziraphale. "I'll get everything organized while I'm there. Then when the time comes, there'll be nothing to think about, I'll just send a message and set everything into motion."

Michael frowned. There was a slight narrowing of his eyes that let Aziraphale know that he was thinking about something. Then that thought, whatever it was, passed, and his face was smooth and impenetrable, as usual.

"Uriel is pregnant again," said Michael. 

"I'd guessed," said Aziraphale. 

"If it's a boy," said Michael. "I suppose you'll expect to have a strong hand in raising him, like before. If Uriel and I could have rooms on the ground floor of the west wing that would be the most convenient. My mother actually wants to move closer to the nursery, so she's asked me to ask you to reserve the blue bedroom on the first floor for her."

"About that," said Aziraphale. "I'm thinking that this year is the year I get serious about getting my own family underway. Can't really put it off any longer." He saw the slight tightening of Michael's hand around his glass, but he decided to forge ahead anyway. Expectations needed to be set now so that there wouldn't be any unpleasant scenes when the time came. "It's good timing, in its way," said Aziraphale. "Considering that Helena is getting married in November. Your mother has run out of girls at last, so this year will be as good a time as any to make the change."

A flick of Michael's eyebrows was the only tell as to how upset he was. He was long past the age of putting his feelings about being usurped into words. Aziraphale kept what little sympathy he felt just as hidden as he kept his grim feeling of triumph. He simply stated what was to be, the way an earl should. "Your mother can move into the dower house with Aunt Patience. You and Uriel may have the choice of South Cottage or Greenbriar. We'll give the other to your sister Anne when she inevitably flees her husband to return here."

"What are you doing with Four Corners?", said Michael. Four Corners was the cottage nearest to the house. It had three bedrooms, which would seem very small to a family that was used to a manor, but for a middle-class farm family, it would seem palatial. 

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "Haven't decided."

"I don't suppose you'll be lonely here in the Hall all by yourself," said Michael. 

Aziraphale felt the little twitch of his own cheek. "I'll get by," he said. "I do enjoy my quiet evenings in the library." 

"Not heading to the library now?", said Michael. "It's only half-nine. You usually don't get back to your rooms until after long after midnight."

"No," said Aziraphale. "Bed for me tonight." He wanted to review all the paperwork in private one last time before he set out for Tadfield. 

"Going somewhere tomorrow morning?" There was a strangeness to the tone of Michael’s question, but Aziraphale was preoccupied with his own thoughts. 

In fact, he wasn't leaving for Tadfield until the early afternoon. The transportation plan for the next few days was complicated because he'd need to meet the lawyers at the Youngs’ farm to witness everything and then take a carriage directly to London afterwards to carry the paperwork up and to also make all the arrangements about the other succession, the one from Gabriel to himself. 

"Well,” said Aziraphale. "I’m not inclined to make any plans. Today has been a full day. Do give Uriel my congratulations." Then he said goodnight to his cousin, and went to bed. 

***

"Good morning Uncle Gabriel," said Aziraphale as he entered the sick room. He said the words very slowly and clearly and loudly. That seemed to work best. The old man was always disoriented when he woke.

"Ehhhh?"

"That's right, it's Aziraphale. How do you feel this morning?"

"Mehhh . . . sssaasa bloody fuggity."

"Your leg hurts again, doesn't it?" 

"Ziraphale," said Gabriel.

"Yes, uncle, it's Aziraphale." These sorts of conversations required patience. 

"Should get married," said Gabriel.

"Yes, uncle, this year for sure." Nice and soothing. "This year I will get married."

Gabriel raised his head and spoke very earnestly and with obvious effort. "You need a son. Can't leave it to chance. If Michael fails us, that pompous twit from my cousin John's line will get everything when you two are gone . . . John’s a cheat . . . you can't let that happen. Promise me."

Aziraphale went over to the french doors to open them and air out the sick room. He was facing away from his uncle, so he took the opportunity to relieve his feelings by muttering something that he knew wouldn’t be overheard: "John's been dead for twenty years," he said. “And you still hate his memory because of one card game back in 1796." 

"Whassat?"

The thing about deafness was that every conversation was a very slow shouting match. With everything repeated two or three times. 

Aziraphale turned around. "I said: Uriel is with child again. Isn't that nice, Uncle Gabriel? Uriel and Michael are going to have a new baby."

"Meh," said Gabriel. "Michael's got the curse. None of his sons are going to survive. It's all up to you. You don't have the curse. How old is your bastard boy now?"

"Nearly eleven, sir," said Aziraphale. "My son Adam is eleven years old this summer. In fact I'm going to visit Adam today."

"Healthy is he?"

"Yes sir. As healthy as can be."

"Should make more like him," said Gabriel. "I shouldn't have taught you about those protective sheaths. The way you are with women, you probably would have had to have gotten married long before now if I hadn't."

"Yes, sir," said Aziraphale. "Undoubtedly true. But this way, I'll make a better match when I do marry, right?" 

"Eh? What?"

"I said: I will make a good marriage."

"This year," said Gabriel. "Promise me that you won't let the season pass without marrying." And he held out a trembling hand that was swollen and stiff. Aziraphale took it very gently and dredged up every bit of compassion he could to arrange his face into a tender expression. 

"Yes, sir," he said. Really, at this point, what did it matter what he said as long as it made Uncle Gabriel happy in his last days? "I promise that I will make a good marriage very soon."

***

The coachman pulled up in front of the inn in Tadfield, as he did eight times a year. Besides the portable desk with its precious paperwork, there were only two pieces of luggage. As usual, a servant carried them in and up to Aziraphale’s regular room. But, this time, when they arrived in the upstairs hall, a tall man with bright red hair and a distinctive facial scar was leaning against the wall, waiting for them. 

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "You've arrived early." He unlocked the door. While his new valet bundled the luggage into the room, he and Crowley stood on opposite sides of the doorframe and stared at each other in silence. "No, Mr. Tarry," said Aziraphale to his valet. "No need to unpack. I'll do it myself. You can head back to Empyrean Hall directly. I've already arranged my transportation to London. You can meet me there in four days."

"Sir," said the valet. And he stepped out of the little room and gave a little bow as Aziraphale led Crowley into the room. 

As soon as the door was shut and locked, Crowley started talking in a low growl. 

"Thought you'd spring this one on me, did you?", he said. "I trusted you for all these years. We had an agreement. He was going to live a life in the middle class. I never would have given him to you if I had had any idea that you would do something like this."

"You are out of your mind," said Aziraphale. "I knew you'd be unreasonable. That's why I didn't tell you any of it before now. I won't let you sabotage this."

"And I won't let you ruin my son."

"Ruin him?", said Aziraphale. "If ever there was an exact opposite to ruining a child, this would be it. I'm making his fortune."

"For your own purposes."

"For the greater good," said Aziraphale. "For his good, for the good of my sisters and cousins and aunts, for the good of everyone whose fortunes are twisted up with all of the debts and obligations of Empyrean Hall, including me. And, if you are ever able to let go of some of that damnable pride and allow me to take care of you, then you will also be among the many beneficiaries of my very well thought out plan."

"Did you ever think of what it would cost Adam? To be part of your 'plan'?"

"You aren't making any sense."

"He's happy, Aziraphale. He has a family that loves him and every day he wakes up safe and loved. And you want him to give all that up to come live with you in that awful place and be surrounded by cruelty. They'll destroy all the good things about him. I'm not handing him over to you to use."

"What are you talking about?", said Aziraphale. "I'm not going to let anyone treat him badly. He'll be my son. I love him."

"HE'S NOT YOUR SON! He's MINE," Crowley could hear himself snarling. Somehow, he'd managed to tangle his hands into the lapels of Aziraphale's coat and push him up against the door. 

Aziraphale didn’t even try to escape or fight back. He just stood there, and his calmness made Crowley feel a little ridiculous. Crowley let his hands loosen and Aziraphale reached up and wrapped his own hands around them and drew them down so that they were holding hands. 

"Of course he's your son," said Aziraphale. His words were clear and slow. "Why do you think I love him? He has your face, your boldness, your wild optimism. I love seeing you in him. And I am not going to let anyone hurt him." 

Crowley shook his head. "You're a coward," he said. He let go of Aziraphale's hands and stepped away. "That woman will hurt him. She won't dare throw a vase at the heir, but her words are just as sharp. She's disfigured the souls of a generation of young people, and you are no exception."

"Then she won't be allowed to see him," said Aziraphale. "You can visit at any time and you'll see that I enforce it."

"I won't set foot in that cursed place ever again."

"What place? Empyrean Hall?"

"Haven't I given enough to all of you?", said Crowley. He was pacing and shouting. "You take and you take. That's all you nobs know how to do. You use us however you want, and we have to pretend to like it, because not only do you get to have whatever you want from us, you get to pretend that it's all some sort of a gift that you're bestowing."

"Crowley?", said Aziraphale. "What are you talking about?"

"Yeeearrrgh!", said Crowley. He realized that he was backed into a corner between the bedstead and the wall with his fists in front of his face, and he didn't know quite how he'd gotten there. 

"I'm going to sit down," said Aziraphale. And he sat in the middle of the bed that was furthest from Crowley's corner. 

Crowley slowly brought his fists to his side and then he sat on the other bed. He could feel his own heart racing. The pulse was throbbing in his neck and ears. His whole head felt like it was too big, so he rested it in his hands. He kept hearing things, and he wasn't sure which were real and which were his imagination. A creaking floorboard, the sound of a low voice laughing at him, his first name used over and over again. He took a few deep breaths and tried to find a solid thought that he could hold onto. He felt the permanent ache in his knees and it was comforting. He heard a sound that he was fairly certain was real: someone walking down the hall outside their room. It was confirmed when the footsteps went down the creaky stairs. 

"I'm going to talk now," said Aziraphale. "I want you to try to stay calm and listen to what I'm saying. Can you do that?"

"Mmmmhmmm." Crowley kept staring at the floor. 

"This is what I want to do: My plan is that I legitimize Adam and give him a gentleman’s education. When he reaches age twenty-one, we two will dissolve the estate, pay off its debts, and split the proceeds in half. His half would be enough for him to keep a smaller country house, but he'll probably choose to travel. He'll go hunt crocodiles on the Nile or hike in the Himalayas." Crowley looked up and Azriaphale wore the very same sweet generous smile that he had once fallen in love with. "I'll use my half," Aziraphale said, "To settle things for my dependent relatives, and then I'll go off and live a quiet life somewhere." Aziraphale patted his own legs. "Now. Is that so terrifying?"

Crowley hung his head. He had been terrified. Of nothing. As usual. And now he felt wrung out. He grasped for some way to feel control: 

"I get to tell Adam that Bess and I are his real parents."

Aziraphale sighed deeply. At last he said: "It’s unwise. But you know that. And it’s not as if I can stop you from doing as you wish. Why should I pretend otherwise?" 

"And, he gets a real choice," said Crowley. "If he says he won’t help you, then you find some other way to escape your obligations."

"It seems unlikely that he'd say no," said Aziraphale. "But if he did, I would accept it, though I reserve the right to ask again when he is older. And the legal reality stays in force. After my death, he will be my next of kin, even if I never speak to him again after tomorrow. I don’t intend to have other children."

"And you’ll take him to visit me in London. Four times a year."

"Agreed."

They were silent again, on their separate beds. Aziraphale seemed pensive. He was tilting his head and peering at Crowley. 

"Now what?", said Crowley.

"Well," said Aziraphale. "Traditionally, after we have our fight, we have our deed of pleasure. But I don't think either of us is inclined right now. And it's too early for supper."

"I meant us," said Crowley. "What about us?"

"I honestly don't know." Aziraphale sighed. "I don't know what to do. You aren't like any other man I've ever known."

"Known a lot of men, have you?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and gave a curt answer. "A few," he said. He pursed his lips and stared at the floor. "That isn't what I meant. And I resent you trying to distract me. It’s rude."

"You were saying that I'm unique," said Crowley. He overenunciated each word so that they popped out of his lips. "Only man in England who doesn't want his son to inherit a fortune."

"I'm trying to understand you," said Aziraphale. "I'm trying to decide whether it's even possible for anything I do to satisfy you.”

"Eyah," said Crowley. He looked away.

***

A few hours later, after supper, they were back in their room. It was close to the summer solstice, so even at nine o’clock, the evening light was still strong. 

"Shall I read for you?" said Aziraphale. "Did you bring a magazine?"

"Forgot," said Crowley. “Was in a hurry to get here.”

"Ah."

"So you know: there is someone at the club," said Crowley. "Sort of a regular companion of the last few years. Not a romance. Just take care of each other, really. Sometimes share a bit of kindness."

"That's good," said Aziraphale. He made a slight pause. "I'm glad." And a tiny sigh. “Well.” He cleared his throat. "I've got a brand new novel that I was planning on saving for the road, but I could read it aloud to you. ' _The Last Man'_. It's about the future. It takes us all the way to 2100. Mrs. Shelley has given us a new style of book: sort of prophecy but also a story."

"It's not gloomy, is it?" Crowley wrinkled his nose. "I don't think I want to hear a gloomy story."

"Might be, a bit. I think that at the end the seas rise and swallow the land.” Aziraphale put the book away in his luggage. Then he took out his special cozy night shirt and laid it on the bed. He bent over, took off his boots, and put them out in the hall. He took off his coat and folded it neatly over the back of a chair. 

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't jealous," said Aziraphale. “Your lover is lucky to have you to do him the kindness. You're very considerate. It makes a difference, I find. It's a rare thing. A lot of men are selfish."

"He's not," said Crowley. 

Aziraphale froze. "Oh,” he said. Aziraphale turned a bit pink, and then he turned his back, for modesty, while he took his trousers and shirt off. Then he put on his nightshirt, removed his pants, and climbed into bed. He looked a bit lost. He studied his fingernails. "So," he said at last, "He does _you_ the kindness."

"Mmm," said Crowley. "Yeah. Sometimes."

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. "But you don't like that sort of thing,” he said. “You told me yourself that it was something you'd never want. You always became so angry when I even suggested--"

Crowley shrugged.

How to answer? He didn't know at all. It had started with laying in Windward's arms while he and Windward watched the room. One day Windward had rested a hand on his shoulder, and another day on his arse, and so he'd built trust, week by week, until Crowley could even tolerate having his hair played with while they watched the room. But only by Windward. Crowley had been like a skittish horse that needed to be brought along slowly. And it had worked. Over years of patience, years of friendship and slow building trust, and occasional tears, Windward had earned the right to something that Crowley hadn't thought it was possible for him to enjoy. 

It wasn't an exclusive thing. Windward had his own needs, and, in the years that he waited for Crowley, he'd gotten them met with someone who didn't need coaxing. Crowley had felt jealousy, and he'd worked through it, gotten past it, and then let himself slowly be brought along until he was now capable of the ultimate act, in that way, with Windward. And it was good: sweet and vulnerable and intensely pleasurable. An accomplishment that made him feel whole in a way he didn't understand. 

How to explain? There wasn't a way to explain that didn’t reopen the pain of the past. So Crowley didn’t speak, and, eventually, Aziraphale was forced to say something. 

"I didn't--." Aziraphale swallowed and looked off at the wall. "Well. That's new." He brought his eyes to meet Crowley’s and offered an unconvincing smile. "I suppose you always are reinventing yourself. Goodness knows you're flexible about the sex of your lovers." And with a little "hmph", he pulled the covers up and lay down in bed. 

The silence roared in Crowley's ears as he got ready for bed. The sunset light filtered through the curtain. Outside the window, there was the sound of people talking and horses whinnying. People were taking advantage of the long summer days to travel as far as they possibly could before stopping at an inn. It was nine o'clock, but it wasn't like winter. It was still too light for Crowley to fall asleep unless he did something to tire himself out. Which would be rude, since, judging by his breathing, Aziraphale was still obviously awake. It had been foolish to forget the astronomy magazines. There was nothing to do but sit with his thoughts, and those thoughts were very uncomfortable. The pressure of them built up like the pressure in a steam engine and finally some words tumbled out of his mouth.

"I don't want to sleep alone," said Crowley. "Would you let me touch you? I crave you. It's too much to be so near and not to touch you. Please?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. And he tossed the covers back. 

Crowley crept in Aziraphale's bed and dared to put his hand on his lover's bare calf. He pushed the nightgown up a few inches and kissed the soft flesh that he had just exposed. 

Outside their door, there was the thumping and creaking sound of new guests arriving with their luggage, arrogantly loud as they jostled past someone in the hall and took possession of the room next door. But Crowley and Aziraphale were as quiet as mice. It was a habit that the two of them had always had to have. That was the difference between every place else and the club. For Crowley, being able to throw open his mouth and let the sounds out heightened everything, made it feel real. This fearful silence cloaked love in shame. 

Right now, with Aziraphale so quiet, Crowley couldn't tell how he was doing. He reached a hand up and the firm grip that he received in return let him know what he needed to know. After a few minutes of pleasant work, he felt his the muscles of his lover's body tighten and stiffen underneath him. The hand he was holding tightened its grip and the other scrabbled along the sheets. And then there were the final spasms and the pulsing warmth in his throat and the quiet panting that settled into a sigh. Plump strong legs wrapped around his ribs to give him a hug, and Crowley used his hand to achieve his own ecstasy. Then he collapsed, his nose in a patch of rough hair with an impossibly clean scent. There was just the slightest hint of musk and sweat complemented by some sort of spicy soap. It was so familiar and intoxicating. And he could have this every night if only he could--

That was the problem. Crowley couldn't fit back into that life. He had breathed free. The summer air in some parts of London smelled like a warmed over sewer but that scent was also the smell of freedom. His whole body flinched at even the thought of returning to the gilded cage of Empyrean Hall. As he imagined being in the ornate rooms of that house, Crowley could feel the clenching of his jaw and the slight nausea in his belly. No. Not even for this. He would die before he set foot in that place ever again. 

A creaking noise in the corridor knocked another thought loose in his head: Adam would be there at Empyrean Hall. Crowley tried to imagine just being on the grounds. Could he stand on the lawn to watch a laughing, confident, russet-haired boy ride a pony? Could he do that for Adam? Gradually get used to it all again? Perhaps he could step past the gate house just to talk to Adam. Then he could work his way closer to the house. That's how Windward had tamed him. One little step at a time. Like a fearful horse. 

"But I can't."

"Huh?", said Aziraphale. 

"Can't be your valet," said Crowley. He was sniffling like a child but he forced himself to lift up his head and at least look his oldest friend in the eyes. "Mr. Wright is going to make me a partner in a year or two, see? Because I know how to run things. And I'm a Lady at court, too." 

Even as he spoke the words, Crowley knew they weren’t quite the truth, because none of those particular things were more important to him than Aziraphale. But there was something that he had won for himself in all these hard lonely years and he knew that if he lost that unnamable thing then he would disappear. It would be worse than death, because everyone would think he was alive, and only he would know that he was an empty husk. 

And then Aziraphale, his own perfect wonderful Aziraphale, was squeezing his hand in the grey-dim twilight, and smiling down on him. "I know," he said. "And I love you completely, just as you are. It isn't fair, is it? We've both tried so hard. Ten more years of this is probably too much to ask of you."

"Can't make myself small enough anymore," said Crowley, "To fit into your life."

"Why don't we see if you can at least fit into my arms?", said Aziraphale. "For tonight."

  
  
  
  



	27. Lawyers, Guns, and Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tries to convince Adam that what is written on paper is just a formality. Adam knows better.

June 1827, An Inn in Tadfield 

There was a bit of a crowd at the back of the kitchen when Crowley was getting the hot water for Bentley's breakfast mash. Among the many people who had arrived during the night, there were three other men who were also preparing special high-energy breakfasts for their horses. They were young and arrogant and they raised Crowley’s hackles. They looked at him pityingly when they finally saw the horse he was feeding so carefully. He saw their eyes linger on his scars as well as Bentley’s.

It was true that Bentley’s face was a little sunken and her coat didn’t gleam quite so brightly as it once had. After all, she was seventeen years old. The only reason Crowley had been able to keep her at all was that he was earning enough these days that he could afford to rent a private box just for her. Bentley didn’t earn her keep in London at all; she only did a few hours of useful work in a week. Still, she delighted in speed, and so Crowley took her and the gig out for a spin through the public park on Saturday afternoons and on summer evenings. But when he did, he sat in the seat, like an ordinary driver.

The Devil’s Carriage no longer raced through the streets of London. There was no horse other than Bentley that could bring out its full potential, and Crowley’s knees and ankles had developed a permanent ache that made standing still for long periods difficult; he couldn’t balance on the swaying platform any more. So now Crowley, at age thirty-seven, was an ordinary, though well paid, coachman and stable master. 

Even though Crowley’s revolutionary business idea had failed, his boss’s more conservative one had succeeded. Wright was a savvy businessman and, consequently, his was one the few London stables to survive the winters of 1815 and 1816. When the world returned to normal, he was in an excellent position to expand and capture the market for high-end hired coaches. He reinvested his profits year after year and ultimately bought up three of the other stables that shared his yard. When Crowley finally gave up on making the Devil’s Carriage profitable, Wright gave him the opportunity to prove his worth as a junior partner in a carriage business that owned seventy horses. Crowley was in charge of overseeing the feeding and day to day care of the horses, while Mr. Wright, who was getting old, stuck to doing the books, managing the drivers, and doing the purchasing. 

Today, of course, Crowley only had one horse to look after, and he gave her the best of care. After Bentley had her breakfast, Crowley brought her over to the field so that she could have a little turnout while he had his own breakfast and packed up. He no longer felt that he had to sit on the wall and watch her dance around the field. There was no danger of a seventeen year old mare being stolen. 

"It's time to retire for you, though," he told her as he shut the gate. "You should have this country life every day. I suppose you'll become his creature too. You and Adam both."

Although he didn’t need to, he stayed to watch her for a minute. Bentley held her head and her bobbed tail high as she made an exploratory lap of the field. She was still tremendous. Her paces were far better than her master’s: she moved as smoothly as a shadow and her footfalls were a soft even drumbeat. There was one other horse in the field, a younger gelding, and when Bentley approached, he moved away immediately, surrendering his patch of tall grass to her.

When Crowley got back to the room, Aziraphale was in his nightshirt, finishing up his morning shave. As Crowley sidled in, Aziraphale caught his eye in the mirror and put the straight-razor down onto a cloth on the washstand. There was still soap on his face and in the edges of his sideburns, but he turned around and gave Crowley his undivided attention. 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “I did need to talk to you about something. But you should finish up.”

“Of course.” And Aziraphale made the last strokes under his chin. Then he ran his fingers around his chin and lips to confirm that everything was smooth and hairless. 

“You look perfect,” said Crowley. He was rewarded with a little smile that brought an ache to his heart. 

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. He rinsed his face and applied lotion. The air filled with the scent of sandalwood and lavender, and Crowley’s heart gave another little lurch. “What was it that you wanted to talk about?”, said Aziraphale. He sat down on his own bed and folded his hands and looked up at Crowley expectantly.

“Bentley,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale nodded. “I thought as much.”

“It’s time.”

“How will you get home without her?”

Crowley shrugged. “Should have planned, really,” he said. “Was a bit emotional when I set out. Forgot to bring a second horse.” He lowered himself onto his own bed to give his legs a rest. 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “That complicates things.”

“So I’ll have to drive her back to London. She won’t mind. She enjoys country drives. She’ll have to have at least a week of rest at home, and then you can come pick her up from the stable when you head back to Empyrean Hall. She won’t slow you down too much. She still loves a good run.”

“I doubt she’ll enjoy following behind the carriage,” said Aziraphale. “It will probably offend her.”

Crowley looked down at his feet. He shrugged. “Eyeah,” he said. “She’ll be happy enough when she finds out that she’s got all those big fields to run in. See if you can get her a little work, though. She likes to feel useful. Doesn’t like to be bored.”

“I’ll tell the stableman,” said Aziraphale. 

“Whosit now?”

“Still Hales, but he’s retiring this year.”

“Who are you promoting?”, said Crowley.

“Joe Alston.”

“He’s decent.”

“Not as good as you would be,” said Aziraphale. 

“Nope,” said Crowley. He turned away and started rustling through his overnight bag for his own razor and soap. “I should smarten up before breakfast.”

***

When they got down to breakfast, the lawyers were there. Crowley sat at the table and listened to Aziraphale spin lies. The plump little aristocrat was a lot smoother than he used to be, and the lawyers nodded solemnly. Crowley ate his breakfast quickly and then cleared the dishes for the whole table while the lawyers and Aziraphale discussed the details of the paperwork that would legitimize Adam. Two of the three obnoxious young men from the stables happened to be sitting nearby, and they stared at Crowley as he walked back and forth carrying the plates through the crowded room. Crowley knew that his gait was odd, and his face was odd, and his hair was odd, but he wasn’t about to let shame overwhelm him, especially on a morning when he had much more important things to think about. Let them stare. If only they knew that he liked to put on a ladies’ frock and get hulled between wind and water. If only they knew that he was giving his only son to his male lover today. 

Once he’d cleared the dishes, Crowley borrowed a damp rag from the bar and brought it back over to wipe down the table so that the paperwork could be brought out. When he was finished, Aziraphale asked him to play the servant yet again. 

"Crowley," said Aziraphale. "Can you open up the room and let Mr. Smith's man take my luggage down to their coach? And then prepare to lead the way to the farm in the gig. We'll leave in an hour and fifteen minutes." 

"Yes sir," said Crowley. When the obnoxious men stared at him again he gave them a sour smirk. He imagined how they might stare at him if only they knew that he was only pretending to be the servant of the nobleman upon whom he’d so often performed the infamous act. 

Crowley granted a more neutral smile to the lawyer's servant as he led him upstairs. The man waited while Crowley finished packing, and then he carried Aziraphale’s little trunk and portable desk while Crowley took his own small overnight bag down the stairs. Crowley handed in the key, carried the bill back to his 'master' and brought the payment to the innkeeper. Then he went out to the field to catch Bentley. 

In the stall, he curried her black coat with careful circling motions to get the morning’s dust off. While he worked, he talked to her about cheerful things, because he couldn’t bear to tell her that they’d soon be parted from each other. He cleaned out her hooves. Then he got out the blacking grease and worked it into the fronts of her knees and over the spots on her withers where her first owner had scarred her with an ill fitting collar. 

The three young men with the hot blooded young horses all happened to be in the stable again and they snickered at him when they saw him rubbing at her knees to make them evenly black. But Crowley ignored them. He never skipped this part of Bentley’s beauty routine. He knew that Bentley knew that it was important. She might not understand why he liked her to look her best, but she knew that none of the other horses in her stable ever got this particular type of attention, and that it meant that she was special. 

“Why does dog food have to look so good?”, said one of the young men to the other. But his voice was low enough that Crowley knew he hadn’t meant to be overheard. And he decided that it wasn’t worth it to quarrel with fools. Crowley narrowed his eyes when one of them walked near and he saw the unnecessary sharpness of his spurs. They were cruel fools who would use their horses up in a few years and leave them as scarred as his poor Bentley.

The barn was busy. The horses for the lawyers’ coach were being readied and there were two other coaches that needed to leave. Everyone had to dance around each other and dodge past piles of manure as they carried buckets and hay and harnesses. And the obnoxious riders with the well-fed young horses decided to take forever to ready their animals, so they just contributed to the general chaos. The driver and the groom for the lawyers stopped by Bentley's stall to get directions to the Youngs’ farm. Crowley told them how to get there and gave them the best route from the farm to the road that led to London. He even recommended a good inn to stop in on the way home. That way, after he took legal possession of Crowley's son, Aziraphale would have a comfortable trip back to London. 

The three obnoxious riders finally headed off, and Crowley’s gig and the lawyers’ carriage were finally freed and their horses hitched. Aziraphale and the lawyers came out from the tavern, carrying leather folders and talking earnestly. 

"Do you want to follow us all the way to London, Crowley?", asked Aziraphale. "Would you like to see Eton?"

Crowley bit the inside of his lip and looked down at the dusty road. He couldn’t quite explain why he expected to need a little separateness after today’s events. But Aziraphale seemed to understand. 

"Another time then," said Aziraphale. 

"Should head out to the farm," said Crowley. He swung up into his gig, pulled out, and headed to the farm without waiting for the others. It was a short and easy route; they’d hardly get lost. And he wanted to be alone with his horse. 

"Last time, Bentley," he said. And he barely had any work to do, because she remembered the route and drove it for him. Which gave him a few minutes in which to indulge his melancholy. 

Reality was a bastard today. Here it was sweeping in to destroy Crowley’s half-formed fantasy that Aziraphale would abdicate his title and come and be his business partner and live with him in London. And there was another piece of the fantasy, which didn’t make any sense, in which Adam decided to come and live with him and learn the skills of a horseman. It was ridiculous, of course. In Crowley’s imaginary world, Bentley was young forever and Aziraphale was happy to be a middle class businessman, and Aziraphale and Crowley lived together with Adam in the flat above the carriage house. Aziraphale would kiss Crowley good morning every day before he headed down to supervise the feeding of the horses and he would give him a hot breakfast when he returned. Everyone in the stable would know that Adam was Crowley’s son, but also Aziraphale’s son. Crowley and Aziraphale would be sodomites with a family, and no one in all of London would notice that they weren’t regular people. All three of them would walk to church together and ride together in the gig and have picnics in the public park and all the people around them would just wave and smile beneficently and be understanding. 

But in the world of reality, today the son he barely knew was going to be taken from him in a new way. And Aziraphale was going to commit to becoming earl, at least for the next decade, so that he could use his powers to do what he thought was right. Even if what he thought was right happened to break Crowley’s heart. 

What had he expected would come of loving an aristocrat, anyway? Crowley had gotten so much more than he deserved. Aziraphale was taking care of his son and his beloved horse. Aziraphale loved him. There was no question about it. And they could still meet from time to time in secret, fall into bed, and share a moment of connection. It wasn't over. There was no reason for Crowley's heart to be breaking. He had the favour of an earl. What more could a thirty-seven year old London sodomite want? 

‘I'm still going to tell Adam the truth,’ Crowley said to himself. ‘He should know that his mother's name was Bess and that it was her wish that called his lovely life in the countryside into being.’

When Crowley pulled the gig up to the front of the little farm house, all the children came running out except for Sarah, who was missing for the first time. 

"Where's Mr. Fell?" This was Pepper's impetuous greeting. "He isn't ill is he?"

"He's coming in a carriage,” said Crowley.

"I think he's decided to install the moat," said Adam. "We'll all go to his castle this time. Fetch the shovels, Brian. And you, Pepper, get some rope and sticks so we can measure it out before we dig. That's geometry."

"How will we get the water into the moat?", said Pepper. 

"Sarah got married," said Brian. 

"The water bubbles up from underneath once you get deep enough," said Adam. 

"At the wedding I ran into the table and knocked a pudding off," said Brian. 

"And sometimes," said Adam, "There are creatures from underground caves that come swimming up to guard your moat until you can get the crocodiles and eels." 

"Mum saved most of the pudding," said Pepper. 

"It was very sticky," said Brian. 

"No one is listening to me," said Adam. "Everyone needs to fetch shovels and rope."

"Adam," said Crowley. "I'd like a moment to talk to--" But Mr. and Mrs. Young had come to the fence and Crowley nodded to them and they wished him a good day and asked after Mr. Fell, and by the time he'd answered them, Adam had run off to organize his siblings into a moat digging crew.

In that very moment the lawyer’s coach drew near, and Mr. and Mrs. Young’s attention was drawn to it. There was nothing for Crowley to do, then, but unharness Bentley and get her picketed and watered while Aziraphale and the lawyers greeted Adam's parents. 

Aziraphale and the lawyers all went into the little house with Mr. and Mrs. Young and Crowley was left outside with the children, who were peering in the windows. He refused to do that. He just stood a few paces away from his son and watched him with all of his might. He didn’t interrupt Adam’s spying to make his confession of fatherhood. And he didn't cry. 

The children eventually grew bored with watching the adults pass pieces of paper around a table and they ran off to play a game of pirates and navy men. 

After an hour, Aziraphale came out of the farmhouse. He scanned the area, found Crowley, gave him a grim nod, and started walking into a new mown alfalfa field. Crowley followed him. The air was tangy and sweet and the stubby yellow stalks were springy and not unpleasant to walk over. 

Mrs. Young shouted for Adam. The boy ran to her, nodded eagerly, and then came running out to the field where Crowley and Aziraphale were waiting. Adam trotted up to them and then stood between them and looked up at them both in a considering way. 

"My mum says you have something important to tell me."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. He folded his hands in front of his belly. "It might seem shocking at first, Adam, but nearly eleven years ago, I brought you here to your family. You see, you were born somewhere else."

Adam tilted his head and his russet curls bobbed a little. But he was completely silent. 

"London," said Crowley. He wasn't going to let Aziraphale get away with shading the truth. "You were born in London and your mother died giving birth to you. I'm your father, Adam. Your mother's name was Bess and she loved you and she wanted you to grow up in the country and so I gave you to Mr. Fell to give to your family."

The boy's eyes widened, and he took a step back from Crowley. He was eerily silent. Crowley had never known him to be silent. Many long seconds passed.

"What do you want?", said Adam. 

"Well," said Aziraphale. "It's a matter of what you want, because, well, um. There's more to tell."

Adam's young brow furrowed.

"I am an earl, you see. Do you know what that is?"

"That means you live in a castle, but you're not a king."

"Exactly," said Aziraphale. "And an earl gets to do all sorts of things. I have twenty horses and that great big park you visited and I can go to London and help make the laws or visit the king. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Adam was silent. Crowley watched his eyes narrow.

"The thing," said Aziraphale, "Is that you, Adam, can become an earl just like me. In fact, you could share the park and the horses and the big, um, castle with me, and when you become a man, you could, um, sell it all and then use the money to travel. Doesn't that sound like a grand adventure?

“Is there a trick?”, said Adam. 

"No," said Aziraphale. "The paperwork we just signed at your house legitimizes you. You are now my legal heir. That means that, under the law, you are my son."

Adam stood and stared off into the distance. He was still and silent. 

Aziraphale was only four inches taller than the boy. He bent over a little so that his eyes were at the same height as Adam’s. He smiled his sweetest and most encouraging smile. 

"Do you understand, Adam?", said Aziraphale. "Isn’t it a lovely surprise?”

Adam stood stony-faced. He didn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes at all. 

Aziraphale was blinking rapidly. He was bent forward, leaning on his cane. He was wearing white linen trousers, a yellow waistcoat embroidered with gold thread, a slate blue tailcoat with two vertical lines of gold buttons, and a fawn colored top hat. The hand that gripped the rounded top of his cane was covered in gold rings, though none of them were the wedding ring that he had worn fourteen years ago. He was facing off against a boy wearing brown trousers and a clean white cotton shirt, but, even so, the aristocrat was clearly intimidated. He cleared his throat in a nervous way and stood up to his full height, all five feet six inches of it. 

"Don't you want to be rich?", Aziraphale said. "Don't you want to become one of the most powerful men in the country? You could have anything you wanted, you know."

"Why do I have to be your son to get all that money?” said Adam. “Why can’t my father still be my father?”

"Well, he still would be,” said Aziraphale. “In your heart.” He gave the boy an encouraging little smile and a tiny nod. "Of course it would only be on paper that I was your father. Just a piece of legal paperwork. Trifling, really." 

“But would I have to live with you?” Adam now turned to look Aziraphale directly in the eyes. His slightly raised chin gave him an air of defiance. 

"Well, yes," said Aziraphale. "Some of the time. And some of the time you would attend school. There's a wonderful school near London called Eton; I can take you to see it this week. And at Eton you'll meet all sorts of lovely new friends. And then when you aren't at school you'll stay at my, um, castle and you'll have a great big room all to yourself and servants that will do whatever you ask of them. And a whole stable of horses and ponies to ride."

Adam tilted his head. "Did you meet your friends at Eton?" He glanced over at Crowley. “Did you meet Mr. Crowley there?”

The smile that Aziraphale made this time was very brief. “Well, no,” he said. “In fact I never attended school. I lived with my sisters until I was nearly eighteen. And then I met Mr. Crowley.”

“Well, then that’s what I want,” said Adam. “I don’t want to go live away from my sister and brothers.”

“That’s very sweet,” said Aziraphale. “You will be able to come visit them on school holidays, and you’ll have time together in the summers. And, if you want, they can leave the farm behind and come live in a pretty house on the park so they’ll be near you.”

“If I’m an earl’s son, will my family have to do whatever I ask them to even if they don’t want it?”

“That’s a very good question,” said Aziraphale. “You are a bright boy. And the answer is--”

“Like you’re trying to tell me what to do?”, said Adam.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” said Aziraphale. “I’m giving you a special opportunity because you are a very special boy.”

"No," said Adam. "Find another boy. I'm not going to be your son."

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “That’s not quite possible.”

Adam took a step back and looked from Crowley to Aziraphale. His face hardened and his hands formed into fists. 

"You're not my father," he said to Aziraphale. "You can't just come here and tell me that my father isn't my father. I don't care that you're an earl or whatever. You can't just mess people about. You can't come into my family and say we don't belong together because you made it up and put it on some piece of paper. I won’t let you put your piece of paper on me. I'll rip it up. I'll throw it in the fire. I can write and read very well and if I want a piece of paper about me, I'll write it myself. I don't want yours."

"Well," said Aziraphale. But Crowley put up a hand to silence him and Aziraphale was nonplussed enough that he actually obeyed his former servant, for the first time in his life. 

Crowley lowered himself on creaky legs until he was down on one knee on the alfalfa field. He bowed his head before his son, and he waited for Adam’s verdict.

"You aren't my father either," said Adam. "My father is the one who was there for me. His name is Arthur Young. And he is my only father. I don't care if you look like me. You aren't my father, and you will never be. Go away! Leave my family alone."

Crowley looked at the ground. He saw drops of liquid hitting the grass near his foot. He knew they were his tears, but he felt his soul singing. He felt joy and sorrow both. And what a symphony. Adam knew love. Just as Bess had wanted. And Adam was as passionate about love as she had ever been. He was not such a fool as to give up a loving family for riches or power. And if that meant that Crowley had lost him forever, then that was the price that needed to be paid for the fulfillment of his late wife's wish. 

"As you say, Adam," said Crowley. He looked up at Aziraphale. "We're done here," he said. "He made his choice. That was our agreement and you are going to honour it."

***

Aziraphale took a deep breath and gripped the top of his cane firmly. He tried to think of what to say next. Obviously there was a bit of an obstacle but he was sure that Adam would come round in time. A boy who dreamed of travel and adventure was hardly going to turn down the opportunity to do all of those things in real life. 

Adam ran off towards his house and Aziraphale followed at a slower pace. When he got to the gate, he overheard Mr. Young talking to Adam just inside the open door of the house. He could make out some of the words.

“Young man,” Mr. Young said. And: “Respectful.” And “Responsible.”

And then he heard Adam howl and, a moment later, the howl was taken up by all of the younger children. The entire farmhouse was vibrating with the sound of wailing. 

Aziraphale hastened to make his way over and Mrs Young met him at the gate. 

"Not to worry," Aziraphale said. "We'll sort it out." 

"We might need a little time," said Mrs. Young. "A few days to explain things to him. Children don't always know what is best for them."

The lawyers rushed out the door of the house, carrying their bags and boxes back to the carriage. 

Mr. Young came running out after them. He shut the front door behind himself and the sound of the children diminished. He trotted over to the gate where Aziraphale was standing. “So very sorry, sir,” he said. He bowed. “Please don’t blame Adam, sir. It was all my fault for not preparing him better. Do you need him to come with you today, sir?”

Mrs. Young was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “Mr. Fell, sir,” she said. “It’s been an honor to have Adam in our household. He’s been such a blessing to us, sir. Please forgive the children their sentiment. They love him like a brother, sir.”

Aziraphale realized that he was standing around with his mouth open in shock. He realized that he must seem angry. That was why Mr. and Mrs. Young were babbling obsequities at him. He quickly rearranged his features into what he hoped was an avuncular expression. 

"Quite understandable,” he said. “Children can be very passionate, but I’m sure things will settle down in time.”

Pepper burst out the door of the little farm house brandishing Adam’s wooden practice sword. Behind her, Brian held up a small stool, with its legs facing out towards Aziraphale. Four year old Wensleydale was sobbing but he was holding a ladle high in the air in what was clearly meant to be a threatening display.

“You can’t have our brother!”, said Pepper. “We won’t let you take him!”

“Pepper, you mustn’t speak like that to Mr. Fell!”, said Mrs. Young. And she turned around and started scolding her children while they howled in terror and defiance. Aziraphale couldn’t even see the children anymore, because Mr. Young was standing directly in his way, bobbling and bowing and apologizing. 

Aziraphale was lost. This wasn’t at all what he wanted. He had always been the genial guest in this happy household, and now they were all trembling and crying. It seemed as if all those golden afternoons of sitting around and reading to the children had been erased. Everything was chaos. He took a step backwards.

“No need to worry, Mr. Young,” said Aziraphale. “The school term doesn’t start until next month yet. I’ll just return another time, after he’s had time to think things through. Or we could delay by a year. Yes. That might be the best way. There’s a great deal of room for flexibility. We’ll discuss it another time, yes? Right. Good-bye.” He fled toward the carriage.

But when Aziraphale neared the open door of his escape vehicle, his ex-husband blocked his path. 

"We do need to talk,” said Aziraphale. “What would you say to traveling together for at least the first leg of the journey? There's a nice inn in Benson. I think we can make it by three-thirty if we start out now."

“No,” said Crowley. “I won’t help you to feel better about what you’ve done.”

"I kept my word," said Aziraphale. "It will be his choice. I could have taken him by force, today, you know. But I didn't."

"So noble of you," said Crowley. His mouth was a line. 

“I’m giving him something unheard of,” said Aziraphale. “I won’t be made to feel badly about it.”

Crowley leaned close so that his lips were near Aziraphale’s ears. “And that’s why it's so hard for me to be with you,” he said. “You’ve been among those wealthy men so long that you can’t tell the difference between when you’re giving and when you’re taking.” Then he turned on his heel and limped away towards where his own horse was picketed. 

Aziraphale stood and watched Crowley heave the harness out of the gig and onto his horse. He wanted to shout something, but the wails from the house would make it impossible for him to be heard at any distance. And so he grabbed his ornamental cane in his hand and walked over until he was only a few feet away from his lover. Crowley pretended to ignore him, so Aziraphale stood close enough that Crowley couldn’t bend over to adjust the straps on his horse without having to turn around to confront him. 

"I'm not like that," said Aziraphale. "I'm one of the good ones. I’m going to wait for Adam to come around on his own. It might be a month, or even a year, but eventually he'll see what a good opportunity this is, not just for himself, but for his whole family."

Crowley smiled. It was a toothy grin: smug and slow. "No, Aziraphale. He's not like you. He's not so afraid that he's willing to trade love for security. And he won't become afraid, unless you make him that way."

Aziraphale felt that the wind had been punched out of him. "But I would never," he said. "I've never used my position to make people afraid."

Crowley jerked his head towards the little farm house. The sound of a sobbing child still drifted from the open window. "You just did," he said. 

***

Aziraphale's ears seemed to be filled with a buzzing noise. Sounds that were far away, like riders passing on a cross road in the distance, seemed near, and sounds that were close, like Bentley snuffling, seemed to have a strange quality as if they were in a tunnel. He clutched his hand to his chest. There was a dreadful tightness there. 

He left his lover of fifteen years and rejoined his lawyers. He climbed into a comfortable carriage with no son, just a pile of paperwork that claimed he had one. 

As soon as he was seated, the footman shut the door. The carriage rocked as he climbed onto the rear, and then there was the jerk as the horses started off, and they were carried away from the farmhouse and up the road. 

A few minutes later, a man on horseback thundered past, obviously in a hurry to get somewhere. But Aziraphale was in no hurry; he could take his time to get to London. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he had very much to look forward to at all anymore. Adam didn’t want to visit Eton, so Aziraphale would have to visit the school by himself, which would be depressing. He'd hoped that Crowley would travel with him so that they could share a room at night on the journey home. That would have been another two nights spent in each other’s arms. But Crowley hadn’t wanted it. So now he was going to spend three days and two nights with nobody for company except his lawyers. It was dreadfully lonesome. 

The lawyers seemed to understand his mood; they were completely silent. They glanced at each other from time to time, and then one of them pulled out some papers to read and one closed his eyes and the last one looked out the window. 

After fifteen minutes, Crowley overtook them on the road. He was travelling at a ludicrous speed but his gig was very light and he had almost no luggage. Aziraphale watched his ex-husband’s face through the window, but Crowley looked straight ahead at the road as he drove by and gave no sign that he even knew that he was passing them. 

And so Aziraphale was left alone with his thoughts. 

The cushioned bench of the carriage was very comfortable, but he felt very uncomfortable, as if he wanted to crawl out of his skin. His chest felt tight and his head ached. His ears were still ringing with the sound of the children wailing, and he felt a very strange sense of guilt. Even though he knew, and it was factually correct, that everyone in the family would be far better off thanks to his intervention. Just as they always had been. It was, after all, because of him that they had those fine clothes and that lovely book shelf full of children's books. The dogcart in the yard was Crowley's but he had given the wooden sword and the slates and the paper and pencils and Adam's little desk with the well for his ink pot. 

Aziraphale was a good man. He was sure of it. He was generous to the poor and to his sisters. He was even kind to his dying uncle: he sat at the side of the sick-bed as much as anyone. He compared himself to Lady Sandalphon, whose bedside manner was often shrill and argumentative, and to Michael who was cold to everyone except his wife and mother. All of Aziraphale’s friends, even the ones at his private social club, were always saying that he was the nicest and sweetest of them. Aziraphale could even see, from how they relaxed slightly whenever the rest of the family left the rooms, that the servants liked him best. Mrs. Potts even said that they liked him so much that most of them refused to spy for Michael anymore, even when he threatened them. They all knew that Michael would be an abusive master, and they didn’t want to help him oust Aziraphale. That was one of the very reasons that Aziraphale was so determined to do the responsible thing and become earl. Hundreds of people would be worse off if he allowed Michael to inherit. 

The only person who was made worse off by Aziraphale’s recent decisions seemed to be Crowley. And that was only because of his romantic sentiments about Adam having an endless childhood. He’d looked so hurt when they parted and Aziraphale struggled to understand. An Eton education was an enviable opportunity. Could Crowley really be that angry about seeing his son elevated? 

"He will forgive me," said Aziraphale. "He can't stay angry forever." Then he realized that he’d said it out loud. 

"Yes sir," said one of the lawyers. "Your son will come to love you. He has to. He's your family."

***

When Crowley set off to leave the farm, Bentley wanted to get off to a fast start. He held her back for a few minutes to let her warm up, and then he indulged her. She still loved speed and she made fifteen miles an hour easily as they passed Aziraphale's carriage and got a few miles beyond it, and then she let herself be brought down to a reasonable trot. 

"What do you say about heading a bit north and taking the Dorchester route, eh girl?", said Crowley. "That should give us some privacy. I’d rather it be just the two of us for the ride home.” 

He passed by a thick clump of hedges and swung up the narrower northern road, then settled in for a long journey home. Aziraphale would beat him to London by at least a day; he would need to spend at least three nights on the road to spare his horse. She had more ambition than stamina these days. He calculated that he could make it home by Tuesday and then on Wednesday night he could head to the supper club and relax a bit and tell his sorrows to Windward. He'd be all right in the end, he always was. He would pretend to have dignity for a few months and then he’d go crawling back to Aziraphale, like he always did. Like he always would for as long as there was breath in his body. 

Before he’d made it a half mile from the place where the road had split, Crowley heard the sound of rapid hoofbeats coming up behind him on the road. Probably wealthy young aristocrats out racing. ‘Shouldn't be tearing up and down the public roads like that,’ Crowley thought. 'Not safe for the rest of us.' Then he realized that the former speed demon of London had just wished for his fellow road users to be more polite. 

"Yeeah," he said to Bentley. "I'm getting old." 

He pulled her closer to the hedgerow to let the riders pass, but the hoofbeats behind started to slow down. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the man in the rear was whipping his horse mercilessly and the one in front was pointing a pistol at him and grinning. 

And then he realized that the two men were the very same obnoxious young men who had been at the inn earlier that morning. 

"CROWLEY!", said the one with the whip. 

"Don't be afraid," said the other, as he came up alongside and leveled his pistol at Crowley. "We only want a little word with you."

  
  
  



	28. The Road to London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a series of epiphanies on the ride home. Which he finds exhausting. Crowley, on the other hand, has some real troubles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mild Animal Abuse, slight gore

There was no earthly scenario in which going quietly with armed men who knew his name was going to end well for Crowley. 

"Hup!", he said, and he slapped the reins hard on his horse’s behind. He pulled out his whip. "Trot ON!", he shouted. "Canter ON!"

His seventeen year old mare gave him a burst of speed that bought him two horse lengths of distance and a moment to think. He glanced back and saw only the two men. The pistol wielder was in front, on a dun horse, and the man with the whip was on a dark bay. The third man, the one that Crowley had seen with them earlier, might be anywhere, even up ahead, so he needed to be prepared for that. He reminded himself that though he could see one pistol, there might be other weapons. His pursuers had horses that were young and fast and not dragging a gig behind them. But there were two advantages that Crowley had. He had his Bentley and he had creativity. 

Crowley slid down the seat and brought his body low, so as to give the pistol-wielder a smaller target and so that the metal body of the gig would provide a shield against shots fired from the rear. When he spotted the nose of the lead horse coming even with the open side of the gig, he tossed his top hat at its face and the dun horse veered away, but didn’t fall back. The rider, with his pistol still pointing in Crowley’s general direction, spurred his horse closer, and Crowley, with his reins in one hand, reached into his coat pocket, found a box full of snuff, pulled it slightly open, and flung it at the dun’s face. A cloud of powdered tobacco gave the horse something to think about. It snorted and stumbled. The rider was nearly thrown as his horse suddenly fell back sneezing and shaking its head fiercely in an attempt to get the noxious stuff out of its eyes and nose. 

The other rider passed the out-of-control dun and was next to Crowley in a flash, coming up on the right. No weapon but his whip, which he would undoubtedly use to try to slow Bentley, but which he was now using to force his reluctant bay horse to close in on her. Crowley’s mare already sensed the threat. Her ears were pinned back and her eyes were wide. Crowley sat up and used his own whip to aim a strike at the bay’s face as it passed by him. The horse veered a little but came right back level with Bentley. The other rider seemed to be trying to force Bentley off the road, but she was having none of it. Constrained as she was by the shafts of the gig, Bentley couldn’t kick, but she snaked her head and tried to bite her opponent’s neck. The bay shied and had to be spurred back into the fray. 

A pistol shot rang off the back of the gig, announcing that the first rider had regained control of his horse. 

“HAH!”, shouted Crowley. “You missed me, you bastard!” Hopefully there wasn’t a second pistol. Bentley made another strike at her opponent’s neck and caught a mouthful of flesh. There was blood and the bay horse screamed and fell away, bucking and fighting his rider, who was cursing and beating him with spurs and whip. “You fucked with the wrong mare!”, shouted Crowley.

While Bentley was defending them from the bay horse, Crowley had been leaning back diagonally on the seat in the bouncing gig, with one foot lifted onto the dashboard so that he could use the metal edge of it to work his boot off. By the time the former pistol-wielder pulled up parallel to him again, Crowley had a reasonably heavy projectile in his hand, which he threw from his semi-reclined position. He aimed to throw the boot at the dun horse’s neck but he missed, because the horse made a very agile sideways dodge. 

Alas for the rider, the horse didn’t take him along. Crowley caught a glimpse of the man’s shocked expression as he seemed to hang in the air for a moment, with no horse underneath him at all. Then there was a thud and the right wheel of the carriage bounced up over something that cracked underneath it. The screams that followed were the loudest that Crowley had ever heard from any human. He turned to see the former pistol wielder lying in the road, clutching at a leg which was bent below the knee at an unnatural angle.

The riderless dun horse kept pace with Bentley, but, perhaps fearing another cloud of tobacco, he didn’t dare get close to her or Crowley. He just paced them along the other side of the road, letting Bentley take the lead. He didn’t seem at all fussed about the fact that his rider had been grievously injured and was lying in the road an eighth of a mile back. 

“I agree,” said Crowley to the dun. “He’s a bad man. I don’t think you should go back to him at all.” 

Crowley spared a backwards glance to confirm that he wasn’t being followed. He didn’t bother trying to slow Bentley down. She wasn’t about to show weakness in front of the dun gelding. So Crowley just sailed along the road and put distance between himself and what remained of his attackers.

“That’s better,” Crowley said to his equine companions. “Just the three of us now. Still have to keep an eye out for that other rider.” But they cantered on for another mile and no other rider appeared, which made Crowley think that, perhaps, the third rider had been sent to report back to his master.

'It's got to be the Sandalphon family', he said to himself. 'They know something. They're after us.’

He directed his next remarks to the young dun gelding. “Oi! Tobacco-horse, do you want to come along with us while we find our friend Aziraphale and warn him?”

  
  


***

Aziraphale was sitting in his carriage, bored out of his mind. It was going to be a long dull journey back to London. They had seventy miles to cover. There were seven of them: the driver, the groom, the lawyers’ valet, the three lawyers, and Aziraphale. There wasn’t much to do at all. Two of the lawyers had a little wooden chess set with pieces on pegs that could be set into the squares. They played at that game, while the other lawyer played cribbage with Aziraphale. After the tenth round of cribbage, they finally quit and stared out the windows at the hedgerows, fields, and farms.

The driver objected to the route that Crowley had suggested back at the stables, and Aziraphale made the mistake of indulging him, so they took a road that Aziraphale didn’t know and ended up at a fairly terrible inn on the first night. There were mice in the walls and their scurrying noises kept Aziraphale from sleeping. His conscience, too, was restless. 

At midnight he got out of bed. He ended up standing in the middle of the room looking at his own reflection by candlelight and talking to himself. 

"What did Crowley mean by 'can't tell whether you're giving or taking'? I'm giving half my money to the boy. That's giving. Clearly."

The man that Aziraphale could see in the mirror above the washbasin seemed to doubt his words, so Aziraphale fixed him with an incredulous look and asked:

"Well, then, what on earth does he think I'm taking from Adam?" His reflection raised an eyebrow. "Of course,” said Aziraphale. “His family." He sighed. "I suppose to a young child one's mother and father are more important than a future fortune." Then he recalled how the occasional afternoons he had spent with the Young family had seemed like a paradise to him, and he realized that he understood why Adam felt the way he did. And the man in the mirror looked ashamed. 

He entreated the man in the mirror. "But it would be irresponsible for me not to give him an education commensurate with his future financial position. Every boy of his social class goes away to school when he turns eleven. That's how it's done." 

The man in the mirror raised both eyebrows.

"Well, not me,” replied Aziraphale. “I didn’t go to school. But that is because my mother couldn't afford--”

The man in the mirror rolled his eyes and then spread his hands as if to make a point. Aziraphale acknowledged it with a sigh and a nod.

“Yes,” he said. “I turned out alright. I am largely self-educated. And my sisters and I truly enjoyed each other's company and . . . Oh, stop that! Don’t be smug. You've made the point. No need to belabour it." 

He turned away from that annoying man in the mirror and started pacing. "I could send tutors,” he said, at last. “It's unorthodox, but he'd be reasonably well educated." He wrinkled his nose again and went back to the mirror and waggled a finger at that man in the glass.

"But, don't you see?", he said. "Then Adam wouldn't be socialized with all the other young men of means. He'd be permanently different." 

The man in the mirror pointed directly at him.

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Like me. I am different from the others." He stammered. "But I like myself as I am." Then he stood up straighter and fixed the man in the mirror with a confident stare. "I wouldn't change myself. I'd rather be happy than conventional . . ."

Then he deflated a bit and scratched at the scruff on his chin. His companion did the same. They eyed each other warily. 

"I do see your point," Aziraphale said. 

Two hours after midnight, Aziraphale finally fell asleep. He dreamed that he was wearing a turban and flowing robes. He was standing in the midst of a great sandy desert on a moonlit night. The white sand dunes were as high as buildings and they stretched as far as the eye could see. At his feet was a wooden door. Aziraphale pulled on a giant metal ring and the door swung up to reveal a set of stone stairs that led underground. There was a little boy standing next to him. He was wearing silk pantaloons and a long white shirt and a little Arabian-style hat. Aziraphale turned to the boy and spoke: 

"Adam," he said. "I want you to go down the stairs into the third chamber and bring back the magical lamp to me, and in return you can have all the rest of the jewels and gold and silver that are in the caves."

"It's a trap," said Adam-in-the-dream. "I won't go in. The place is cursed."

"But you have to help me," said dream-Aziraphale. He fell to his knees in the sandy desert and clutched at the hem of Adam's Arabian costume. “It’s the only way I’ll get my wish.” 

"You have to break your own curse, Mr. Fell," said Adam. "I won't do it for you."

***

Crowley was softly cursing as he lay in a hayloft forty miles west of London. In the loose boxes below, his two horses, Bentley and Tobacco, were resting after a long and fruitless day of searching the countryside. Aziraphale’s coach had not gone through the town of Benson or any of five other nearby towns that were on or near the road that he had said he would take. “They have seven men in that carriage,” Crowley muttered to himself as drifted off to sleep. “Michael isn’t going to attack seven men to get to his cousin . . . He’s got more finesse than that . . . He’s not a murderer . . . He wants something he can use for blackmail or in a court. . . He wanted me because he thinks I can be made to turn against Aziraphale . . . How much can he possibly know? . . . Doesn’t matter really . . . Just have to warn the angel . . . We’ll hide somewhere in London together . . . Work it out from there . . . Aziraphale, where the bloody hell are you?”

By the next morning, Crowley had concluded that Aziraphale was probably ahead of him on the road, and that it would be very unwise for him to keep searching, because he didn’t want to get caught by a second set of hired bandits. So he wrote a bunch of identical warning letters to be delivered to the London townhouse by mail coach, and he posted the first of them. Then he joined a group of travellers, for safety. With his new riding horse tied to the back of his gig, he headed to London as fast as his poor overworked Bentley could take him.

***

The road back to London was long. And there was nothing for Aziraphale to do but think. Normally, when he made this trip, Aziraphale was obligated to talk. A younger cousin would need to be entertained, or Uriel would be asking pointed questions about how he spent his time and his money in London. But, though he shared a carriage, there was no one to entertain. The lawyers were silent when he was silent and, when he spoke, they followed the direction of his conversation, filling the air with amusing anecdotes and subtle compliments to him. 

"Your son is very tall for his age," said one of them. 

"Remarkably lively intelligence, too," said another. 

But their well-intentioned words only made Aziraphale morose. 'I've legally gained a son,' he thought. 'But I’ve lost his love forever.' 

Aziraphale stared out the window of the carriage as they approached the town nearest to Eton. They were just over four hours from London. One more evening at an inn before home. He wondered whether the sinking feeling in his belly would lessen once he got into his London townhouse. He kept looking out onto the road as if he might see Crowley there.

'He'll take a different route of course,' he said to himself. 'Except at the end when we get near to London.' Aziraphale had half a mind to wait at the tollhouse to try to waylay his ex-husband. And what could he possibly say if he should happen to run into him? He had an urge to abase himself. ‘I’m sorry,’ he would say. ‘You were right. I’m a miserable person who was pretending to be generous. I should never have been willing to upend your son’s life to help me escape my own awful situation.’

As the pinnacles and domes of Eton’s famous campus came into sight, Aziraphale realized that he wasn’t going to be taking his planned tour of the school the next day. Perhaps, he reflected, he could send a Latin and Greek tutor to live in Tadfield, so that at least Adam would have a reasonably good education. ‘And, when he turns twenty-one, if he doesn’t choose to help me dissolve the estate,’ Aziraphale told himself, ‘I’ll just abdicate to him and he can become the first chicken-farming peer the nation has ever seen. He can go to parliament in overalls and be a champion of the common man. Crowley would love that.’ 

Aziraphale imagined Adam looking over his fellow Members of Parliament with the same easy confidence with which he had surveyed Empyrean Hall. ‘What this nation needs,’ he would say, ‘Is universal suffrage for all men.’ He wouldn’t be afraid at all. He’d have no reason to fear other men, no dark secret at the center of his soul that he had to constantly hide. Yes. The thought of grown-up Adam confusing and befuddling a bunch of wealthy old lords made Aziraphale smile. 

And that would have to be how he found his happiness for the next ten years. In imagining the happiness of others. Because, unless he was willing to condemn his own sisters to poverty, he was trapped. Of course, his life wouldn’t be all loneliness and lies. He’d have his books and his comfortable old riding horse. And, as soon as he was able to purge his staff of those who were less than trustworthy, he could finally start to feel safe in his own homes. He might even be able to entertain gentleman friends at the townhouse, which would be very cozy and would allow him to avoid social club politics. 

If only there was anyone he wanted to entertain other than Crowley. Who couldn’t possibly be brought home. 

Even if he was willing to set foot on Fell family property, Crowley had such a distinctive face that he couldn’t just be passed off as a gentleman friend. Every servant in the house knew him or knew of him. There weren’t many extremely tall red-haired men with clean-shaven faces and big silver scars across their cheeks. And even if all the servants were sacked and a completely new staff brought on, a scarred man wearing middle class clothes still couldn’t enter by the front door. He’d have to be snuck in the back, and Crowley would probably not accept such a humiliation. 

But, perhaps, once he was earl and didn’t have to fear Michael having him followed around London, Aziraphale might be able to get the two of them a regular rendezvous spot in town. He might even find a high end house of accommodation and permanently reserve a room there. And, perhaps, if he abased himself thoroughly enough, Crowley would consent to see him there a few times a week. But perhaps not. Crowley had made it clear that an arrangement like that would no longer make him satisfied.

As the carriage rocked and lurched around him, the thought of someone else satisfying Crowley swam into Aziraphale’s mind. His imagination supplied a bunch of fragmentary details: Crowley's bony elbows pressed into a mattress, his scarred face laying sideways against that same mattress, the rocking motion of his body, his wine-red lips parted in a peculiar ecstasy of pleasure and strain. 

As the images filled his mind, Aziraphale felt sharp angry thoughts succeeding each other like a ratchet advancing inexorably along the teeth of a great metal gear, each thought making a metallic clink in his mind that raised the tension in his body: 'How can he suddenly decide he likes to get his leather stretched?'; 'Men like us are all one way or the other,'; 'He's not that sort at all, so why is he playing at it?'; ''Maybe he did it once but he certainly can't enjoy it.'; 'I should think I know him better than anyone.'; 'He won't tolerate a finger at the back door, let alone a prick,'; 'He's lying.'; 'He made it up on purpose to hurt me.' But then a squeezing sensation in Aziraphale's chest heralded a thought that silenced all the aggrieved chatter in his mind: 'Perhaps he isn't lying and I never really knew him.' 

“Sir?”, said a voice. “Please do come out. They need to take the carriage around to the stable. Sir, you look a bit peaky. Are you feeling alright?”

“Sorry Mr. Smith,” said Aziraphale to his lawyer. “I was lost in my thoughts. I think I’ll take a walk around the green.”

“Shall we order tea for you, sir?”

But Aziraphale forgot to answer as he wandered off across the street and started pacing around the green in the centre of town. 

‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘It’s better if I free him to be with whoever this other man is by pretending I don’t want him anymore. There are too many obstacles for the two of us to make it work: ten years to wait before I'm free, the social class differences, and this incompatibility in our tastes. Criminal or not, he’s a good man, and it isn’t fair for me to let him continue to get his heart broken when it can’t work between us.’ Aziraphale’s latest bit of thoughtlessness would be a good excuse to break things off formally. He could apologize for frightening Crowley’s son, and then he could end it between them.

Still, he reflected, if the events of the past few days were discounted, he had at least done right by Crowley’s son. As he mused, a little family walked by: father, mother, three daughters and a little baby in a dress. The bigger people were taking turns to lead the baby about by the hands as it toddled. They were all laughing at the serious concentration that the infant gave as it carefully placed each plump foot down on the grass. A happy family, exactly as happy as the one that Adam had grown up in. Aziraphale acknowledged their bow and curtsies with an indulgent lowering of his head as he passed by them. Then he left the town green, crossed the road, and went into the inn for tea. 

He sat down with his lawyers and tucked into a perfectly acceptable light meal. The lawyers were talking about their families. Young Mr. Platt apparently had a two-year old son whom he was very fond of.

“I’ve never been away from him for so long,” said Platt. “It seems like he learns a new word every day. I expect that when I get home I’ll hear a half-dozen new ones.”

“They do change so fast in the early years,” agreed Smith. “One hates to miss even a week at that stage. It’s all so exciting.”

The others offered polite and merry laughs and they would have very likely have launched into a light-hearted conversation about bright children (such as Adam) but they didn't because Aziraphale dropped his spoon. 

The spoon clattered onto his saucer, and all conversation at the table ceased upon the instant. 

"My goodness," said Aziraphale. "I could have placed Adam in a home in this very town."

"Sir?", said one of the lawyers. "Are you quite all right?" They were all in a hubbub, but Aziraphale reassured them and rose from the table and went outside to go out for a walk and absorb the terrible thing that he had just realized. 

As he crossed the road to the green, he was berating himself: ‘I could have found Adam a home nearer to London,’ he said to himself. ‘Crowley could have seen him every Sunday. Why didn't I think of it? Why did I make Adam convenient to my home and not to his when he was the one who had to work six days a week and couldn't afford to travel?’

As Aziraphale paced around the green, he struggled to accept the unimaginably cruel wrong that he had done to Crowley, and his own utter obliviousness to it. ‘It would have scarcely made any difference to me,’ he told himself. ‘If anything, nearer to London would have been more convenient, considering that I'm reliably there for half the year. Why did I arrange things so foolishly?’

But he made the excuse for himself: ‘I did my best at the time. I was presented with a problem and solved it expediently. And Crowley seemed happy with the choice of the Youngs. I honestly thought I was doing right. And Crowley has equal responsibility. He could have suggested that we choose a farm closer to London.’ Then he looked up and realized that the youngest of his lawyers, Mr. Platt, the father of the two-year-old, was sitting outside the front of the inn, oh-so-casually smoking a pipe. 

‘Damn,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ve worried the lawyers. Best be getting back to tea.’ But he needed to walk a few dozen more yards to fully calm himself down, and, because he was preoccupied, he nearly ran into someone. He was about to apologize when he realized that the someone was, in fact, a tree. An afternoon breeze rustled the branches of the tree, and Aziraphale looked up at them and realized that it was an apple tree. And, though it was only August, the branches were already covered in large and lovely golden fruits. 

With the lawyer watching him from across the street, Aziraphale decided that it seemed better to pretend that he had approached the tree on purpose rather than letting it seem that he had almost wandered into it, and so he reached up and twisted an apple off of a branch and took a great bite. 

Instantly, a sour taste erupted in his mouth. Apparently this wasn’t a deliciously ripe yellow apple, but rather an unripe and bitter apple which would have been destined to be red in a month or so. But Aziraphale was a gentleman, dressed in a top hat and a fine tailcoat with gold buttons, and so he couldn't spit the noxious mouthful out upon the grass. He threw the rest of the apple to the floor and walked away from the tree, slowly masticating and swallowing the bitter peel and sour flesh in little gulps, as best he could. He made his way across the green as he suffered through it. Then he crossed the road. 

As he was halfway across, Aziraphale had a realization that staggered him. If it weren't for the pretty gold-topped cane in his hand, he would have fallen. He was lucky that the road was unbusy enough that the only cart on it, a little farmer's cart, simply swerved around him when he suddenly staggered into its path. The driver apologized and tipped his shapeless straw hat, as though he had been at fault. As the farmer passed, Aziraphale spun around in disbelief, right there in the road. 

Young Mr. Platt was at his elbow in the next instant, stopping the traffic and leading Aziraphale back to the side of the road in front of the inn. 

"Sir," said he, "Are you quite all right? That man was driving too fast. Won’t you come inside and sit down?"

Aziraphale looked his lawyer in the eye and said: "If I needed you, Platt, to stay here in this town with me for an extra three days, would that be quite acceptable?"

There wasn't even a trace of resistance. "Of course, sir," said the lawyer. "I'll make the arrangements."

"No," said Aziraphale. "That's quite all right. You see, I've just changed my mind. I've decided to skip visiting Eton tomorrow. We'll arrive in London by early afternoon." He searched the young father's face for relief. After all, he was showing mercy. But all he saw was confusion and concern.

"Sir," said the lawyer, "We need to get you off your feet. Are you feeling ill? Is there anything I can fetch for you? Anything you want?"

"But what do you want?", said Aziraphale. He wrung his hands in agitation. "How would I even know?" 

"Sir?"

"You can't gainsay me," said Aziraphale. "Even if it means that you are separated from your child. You have to accept whatever I choose. And furthermore, you have to make me feel that whatever I decide for you is the very thing that makes you happiest. That way I'm never burdened by the knowledge that anything I do is hurtful to you."

Aziraphale was shaking his head back and forth in horror, but the only response that the young lawyer gave was a gentle and indulgent smile. As if Aziraphale were a child. 

"Me, sir?", said the young lawyer. "There's absolutely no need for you to concern yourself about hurting me, sir. I hope I haven't said anything to make you think such a thing. It's been a pleasure to take this journey with you sir, and I was honoured to be among the first to meet the handsome son that you've kept secret for all these years."

Aziraphale took two steps backwards. He nearly got run over by another cart, which swerved out of the way. The driver pulled off the road, but Aziraphale didn't wait to hear his apology, he just fled to the door of the inn. As he swept through the crowd on the ground floor, people got out of his way and bobbed and curtsied to thank him for the honour of his presence. He thundered up the steps and a maid carrying a heavy pitcher pressed herself to the wall and lowered her eyes as he passed. He entered his room, shut the door, turned the key, and then fell onto the bed and buried his face in a pillow. 

The feeling in his body was the exact same feeling that he had felt when he'd got the news of the untimely passing of Michael’s little son. There was a hollowness in his chest. His head felt foggy. His limbs were heavy. Time seemed to be moving too slowly. 

Even as he indulged his tears, Aziraphale knew it was selfish for him to feel so strongly. What could he possibly be grieving? He hardly had the right to the emotion when it was Crowley who had just lost his son forever after never having had a fair chance to even know him.

Aziraphale thought back to that night in Starry Field nearly eleven years ago and he was filled with shame. He closed his eyes and spoke as if Crowley could hear him. "As distraught as you were," he said, "You plied me so carefully with your words. All I could see was your calculation; I didn't bother to think of why you needed to be calculating and careful." Aziraphale covered his face with his hands as his shame overwhelmed him, but he kept on with his confession, saying it to his own tear-wet palms. "I was so busy congratulating myself on my generosity. And you didn't dare ask for more than what I was willing to give. You couldn't. Not in the position you were in. I’m so very sorry. Your wife had just died in your arms and I thought myself merciful for stealing your son away to Tadfield."

Aziraphale lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, for hours. He was merciless to himself; he reexamined every interaction that he'd had with Crowley for the past fifteen years through the lens of his new revelation. Everything was suddenly up for questioning. What they had done together on those pleasant evenings at that inn in Tadfield: had it truly been an act of love, or had Crowley been forcing his body to do what needed to be done to keep Aziraphale from abandoning his son? 

After so many years of misery and self-erasure, the future earl was mere weeks away from finally claiming his birthright, and now he felt as though reality itself was slipping away from him. There was something he was struggling to understand. Something about how truth and equality and love were all connected. But he couldn't quite solve the puzzle before his exhausted mind finally succumbed to sleep.

***

Bentley was exhausted. She’d made the seventy mile run from Tadfield to London in only three days and two nights. When Crowley pulled up at the final tollbooth outside of London, she was at her limit. He wasn’t doing so well himself. He was bareheaded, he was wearing one boot, and his other foot was wrapped in rags. He had just barely enough money left in his purse to pay the final toll to get back home. The rest had been spent on paper and postage for the letters he’d sent to Aziraphale. He’d sent the letters to Aziraphale's London house on several stage coaches. They didn’t provide too much detail of what he suspected Michael knew, in case they were intercepted, but hopefully they would provide the angel with a warning. 

The question now was whether it was better to go directly to Aziraphale's London townhouse, and risk being intercepted by Michael or Lady Sandalphon's agents, or to run straight for the Two Cocks. 'Should have told him the address of my supper club,' thought Crowley, 'So he knows where to find me.' It was a conundrum. How to safely contact his angel and extract him from the danger? At least he had the Queen Mother and her extensive network of criminal friends to help him. They'd think of something. There would be time. Aziraphale was a nobleman, which meant that, whatever he was accused of by Michael, the wheels of justice would turn very slowly, and there would be an opportunity for a prison break or a mad dash to a safe house. 

'And he's with his lawyers, the whole way home,' thought Crowley. 'Michael's hardly going to put a bullet into him in front of his lawyers.'

He pulled his gig up in front of the gate of the tollhouse and pulled out his coins. A man came out of the little stone building, looked him over slowly, and held out his hand to accept the money. As Crowley dropped it into his hand, the man seized him by ear and started shouting. 

Three other men came out of the two toll houses on both sides of the road. There was more shouting, and someone seized Bentley’s bridle and another man shoved a pistol into Crowley's belly. 

"Gentlemen," said Crowley. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."

The fourth man brought a piece of paper out of his pocket and looked down at it and back up at Crowley. 

"Ginger hair, great big scar on his face, thin and tall, that's the very man." He cleared his throat. "Mr. Anthony Crowley, you are under arrest,"

"My name is John Green, sir," said Crowley, but no one listened. They forced him out of the gig and onto his knees. 

"The charges," said the toll man, as Crowley's hands were manacled behind his back, "Are conspiracy--"

"You have the wrong man," said Crowley.

"Fraud."

"I don't even know what you're talking about," said Crowley.

"And sodomy."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	29. Gentlemen's Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley, stuck in Newgate Gaol, makes a bold gamble to try to get himself free. Meanwhile, Aziraphale, in asking for advice about how to apologize to Crowley, accidentally discovers something that shakes him to his core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussion of Rape, Classism, Newgate Gaol, Trauma, Angst
> 
> See end notes for summary
> 
> Also-- two hours after publishing this chapter, author shamelessly added in four more lines to increase the clarity of the story.

  
  


It was an unseasonably chilly summer day on the afternoon that Aziraphale arrived home from his trip to Tadfield. He bid his lawyers a good day, hopped out of his carriage, and entered the front door of his London townhouse. He was the only one there, because the rest of the Fell family had decamped to the countryside months earlier to watch over Uncle Gabriel at Empyrean Hall. 

As he walked into the mostly abandoned house, a footman named Isaac (who was really more of a man-of-all work) took his hat and coat and directed the lawyer’s servant to leave the luggage in the front hall. The normal London housekeeper had retired suddenly due to a family emergency, and so it was Mrs. Potts who was looking after the townhouse while a replacement housekeeper was being sought. When Aziraphale arrived, Mrs. Potts came bustling out of a room whose furniture was draped in white sheets. She smiled warmly and assured him that the library and his bedroom were both ready for his use. He had written ahead, of course. 

Aziraphale made his way through the deserted hall and up the stairs of his home. He carried his own portable desk to the office. Issac was busy unpacking his other luggage because the valet still hadn’t arrived from Empyrean Hall. The valet's lateness wasn't unexpected: Aziraphale had arrived at home home six hours ahead of schedule because he’d skipped his tour of Eton. So he would just have to make do without a valet for the afternoon. 

As he reached the landing just outside the library, it occurred to Aziraphale that he might want to go out, to get some company, and so he caught a maid named Daisy as she passed and requested that a bath be drawn and a carriage ordered for ninety minutes from now. 

"There's no one here to drive you, sir," she said. "They'll have to order a hireling carriage."

"That's perfectly acceptable," he said, and he smiled at her, because it was his habit to be kind to his servants. He had always known that making his interactions with them pleasant was the right thing to do. But today, for the first time, he felt a bit uncomfortable receiving the maid’s answering smile and her curtsy. He wondered how Daisy might behave, or what she might say, if she was actually free to speak her mind to him. 

***

The Fell family’s London library took up the entire front of the townhouse on the first floor. The room was twenty seven feet long and nineteen feet deep. Like every room on its level, it had a thirteen foot ceiling. The walls were covered in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, except for where there were doors (one to the hall and one leading to the drawing room) or windows (three enormous ones overlooking the street), or the fireplace. On the massive sets of shelves were over four thousand thick tomes, which comprised the majority of the Fell family’s London collection. 

If a family member wished to read in the library, they could sit in one of the two wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. For greater relaxation, there was the chaise longue, or, if one needed good light to read, there were three armchairs by the windows. If work needed to be done, there was a choice of the large table under the window near the fireplace, or a mahogany desk that had no less than eleven drawers and one built-in safe, all of which could be locked with separate keys.

Mahogany was a wood obtained from the Americas, and Aziraphale’s family had purchased the desk at a time when the English presence in the Americas had been more expansive than it was today. Coincidentally, the swivel chair behind the desk was patterned after a design by the third U.S. president, Thomas Jefferson. And so, as he sat at the desk, Aziraphale found himself thinking about the rebellion and subsequent war in America. He had always blamed the mad king for the loss of the colonies. Today, for the first time, he seriously considered whether there really had been something to that whole ‘representation issue.’ Crowley had always been rabidly for reform. He’d railed about ‘rotten boroughs’ and corruption. Whereas Aziraphale had always been of the opinion that, while it was true that the urban population had exploded, that in itself was no reason for the traditional way of assigning seats in the House of Commons to be upended. As long as the representatives from the existing boroughs were beneficent and showed consideration for the urban population, then there was no need to change a system that had always worked.

Today, Aziraphale found himself wanting to reconsider his opinion. He was beginning to understand that the beneficence of men like himself could inadvertently tear apart the families of less powerful people and he wondered whether something analogous might happen in the political sphere.

‘I should apologise to Crowley,’ he said to himself. ‘I think he may have had the right of it after all.’ The list of things he needed to apologise to Crowley for was growing at an alarming rate. But the thing that Aziraphale feared the most was that Crowley would never accept any apology or proof of devotion short of Aziraphale abandoning the estate. Which he couldn’t do, because it would doom his sisters to poverty. 

‘I don’t know how to escape,’ he said. ‘I thought I had a plan, but now it’s all fallen apart.’ 

The reluctant nearly-earl unfolded his portable desk so that it turned from a box into a clever little wedge with a sloped writing surface on top. He lifted off the leather covered writing surface and, from the hidden compartment underneath, he pulled out some notarized documents. There was a knock at the door and he quickly slipped the papers back into the portable desk and closed the lid. 

"Yes?", he said.

"Sorry, sir," said Issac. "Some letters came while you were gone. I should have given them to you when you arrived."

"Thank you," said Aziraphale.

"And Mrs. Potts will be bringing up the tea in a moment." 

"No thank you, Isaac," said Aziraphale. "Have it sent to my room. I'm not to be disturbed while I'm in the library."

"Sorry, sir," said the servant. 

As soon as the footman left, Aziraphale tossed the letters into a tray and locked the library's doors. Then he opened the document compartment of his laptop desk and pulled out the papers that proclaimed that Adam Young was the natural son of Mr. Aziraphale Fell and that he was hereby legitimized. Aziraphale read them through again. 

He rubbed at his forehead to try to make the pinched feeling in his head subside. But it didn't help any. 

'All those pretty words,' he thought. 'And what do they even mean if Adam doesn't come to trust me?' 

Words on a piece of paper couldn't create a relationship where none existed. If he wanted to escape his obligations and dissolve the estate, Aziraphale would have to win back Adam's trust, over the course of the next decade. It was a daunting prospect. Aziraphale cursed his own naïvité. 'Should have expected Crowley's son to be stubborn and independent,' he thought. His plan to introduce Adam to Gabriel before Gabriel’s death would have to be scrapped. Adam would never play along. Especially since Crowley had insisted on telling him the full truth about his origins. 'It's too complicated to expect a boy to keep such a secret,' he thought. ‘Even if he didn’t hate me to pieces for trying to take him away from his mother and father.’ 

But what was done was done. And so, until he figured out what to do about the whole Adam situation, it was best to just keep the whole matter a secret from his family. 

Under the kneehole of the library desk was a built-in safe. It was actually part of the desk. The little wooden wall at the back of the kneehole had a keyhole in it. Most of the family didn’t even know that the little safe existed. Now that Uncle Gabriel was dying, Aziraphale had finally been given the key. He squeezed his plump body underneath the desk, fumbled in the darkness to get the key into the lock, and then pulled open the heavy door. Inside the secret safe were two boxes. He dragged them out into the light. One proved to contain a pair of dueling pistols and the other a bunch of letters. 

He knew he probably shouldn't, but Aziraphale looked at the letters. They turned out to be love letters from a woman named Beatrice to her 'Gabby.' Aziraphale never could resist the written word, and soon he was ensconced in one of the wingback chairs by the fireplace, working his way through the letters. It seemed that Uncle Gabriel’s love affair had been a bit scandalous, because Beatrice had been a married woman. One letter, dated 1773, said: "Thanks to the continuing insurgency in America, your dear Beez will be without her husband's company for the foreseeable future. She is distraught and will require you to comfort her as soon as possible."

The sugary endearments and the barely disguised talk of their carnal activities was revolting. Aziraphale found himself wanting to wretch. And yet, he felt strangely compelled to keep reading. ‘ _I am still covered in the marks of your passion betwixt knee and navel_ ,’ he read. 'Blech,' he thought. 'Crowley and I never used such explicit language in writing.' He rifled through the correspondence and found that it went on for nearly ten years. 'I suppose I should burn it all after he dies. Nobody wants to read this.' 

And yet, he kept flipping through them. There was something compelling about the letters, and it wasn't their salacious content. Aziraphale found his eyes tracing out some of the words of the closing lines: ' _Always yours in my heart_ ', and ' _With unending fondness_.' Beatrice had loved Uncle Gabriel, and, presumably, he'd felt the same for her. His sentiments must have been strong, or else he wouldn't have kept these letters for four decades. It was funny to think that at some point in the past, cranky old Uncle Gabriel had had a passionate illicit romance. 'He must have been a completely different man when he was young,' thought Aziraphale. 

As he skimmed the letters with the later dates, Aziraphale searched for evidence of the dramatic denouement. But there was no talk of being discovered, or of a duel between Gabriel and Beatrice's husband, or even the slightest hint of disagreement between the lovers. The letters just ended without so much as a goodbye. 'Probably the bad letters at the end just got burned,' thought Aziraphale. 'A nine year romance is hardly going to end for no reason at all.' 

Aziraphale crawled back under the desk and returned the dueling pistols and the box of secret love letters to the safe. Then he placed the leather folder containing Adam's legitimization papers on top. He shut the kneehole safe and locked it. Now all the family secrets were together in one place. 

'Well,' he thought. 'That's done. Now what?' 

Aziraphale was at loose ends. He was all alone and had nothing to do for the next day and a half. Later in the week would be tedious meetings with the accountants to review the details of all the debts and liens that he was going to inherit. For all his theatrical grumbling about money management, Uncle Gabriel had done a rather poor job of stewarding the estate. Aziraphale had long suspected that allowing Lady Sandalphon to bring fifteen girls out using the estate’s resources had been a bad idea; he was not looking forward to finding out how bad it was. Even worse, in just the past month, Gabriel had finally confessed to having some old gambling debts which had apparently been allowed to accumulate interest for the past decade. Aziraphale was certain that he was going to have a number of other unpleasant surprises when he met with the accountants, and he was still emotionally reeling from the disaster in Tadfield. What he wanted was to somehow think of a way to win back both Adam and Crowley. But he was still trying to comprehend the new things he had learned about how his powerful position made it hard for him to have an honest relationship with either of them.

He decided that what he needed to do was to give himself a chance to regroup. 'I think,' he said to himself, 'That it wouldn't be too much to ask to have the next twenty-four hours be pleasant and easy.' A relaxing afternoon spent at his private club would be just the thing to take the edge off.

Before he went out, of course, he would need to wash off the smell of travel. 

As he sat in his deep bath, Aziraphale distracted himself from his own worries by puzzling over his uncle's romantic affair. 'Probably,' Aziraphale told himself, 'It ended because her husband returned from the war.' That seemed like a fair assumption to make. And perhaps Beatrice had even been happy to see her husband. Crowley had once assured Aziraphale that women had carnal appetites just as men did. If that was true, then it might stand to reason that a long distance illicit affair was hardly going to be as satisfactory to Beatrice as a husband who could see to her needs every day. 

Another thought floated along, as they do in a bath, and Aziraphale found himself wondering exactly who was fucking Crowley, and how often they got up to it. The man was obviously a member of Crowley's supper club. And Crowley went there twice a week. 

“How am I to compete with that,” said Aziraphale. “When it’s not even something that’s in my nature to do?” 

Aziraphale sank into the bathwater in despair. 

***

Crowley was not about to let himself sink into despair. It was true that he was in Newgate Gaol in a crowded underground cell with a dozen other men and that he had no hat and only one boot. However his other foot was protected (rather ingeniously he thought) by an improvised wrap made of stable bandages. Moreover the bandaged foot was comfortably dry. This was a major accomplishment under current circumstances because some of the fellows with whom he was sharing the cell seemed to have trouble using the bucket and there were several very dubious puddles on the floor. 

Crowley hadn’t yet been told who had accused him, but he had a good idea that it was either Lady or Michael Sandalphon. ‘The sodomy thing has to be pure speculation,’ he said to himself. ‘They’re just shaking the trees with that one. Best to remain calm about that.’ That only left the equally serious charges of fraud and conspiracy. The problem, of course, was that the court was going to be inclined to believe the word of a nobleman over that of an ordinary citizen. It didn’t help matters that Crowley actually was guilty of participating in a plot to install his own son as the false heir to the Earl of Ambrosden and therefore any defense he made of himself was bound to come off flat. He didn’t know where they’d gotten their evidence from, so he couldn’t even plan his lies ahead of time. 

Which meant that, unless he was going to confess and implicate Aziraphale, Crowley had only one way to avoid the gallows. He needed to muddy the waters enough that he could buy time to get into communication with Aziraphale and with his own criminal contacts. Then, with some luck, the right people could be bribed and the criminal charges against him would disappear. His best possible method of muddying the waters might possibly put Aziraphale in temporary danger, but Crowley was certain that, once the chaos was unleashed, he could improvise until he got himself and Aziraphale free. 

The best scenario was that Aziraphale had received one of the many letters Crowley had sent to his London home. He’d been careful to hire a man with neat handwriting to write the address for each of them, so that they’d be sure to arrive safely at the townhouse. There was, of course, no guarantee that the Sandalphons wouldn't intercept them. But, if Aziraphale had received even one of those letters, he would right now be safely holed up in one of their old rendezvous locations in the city and would therefore be in absolutely no danger of being caught up in Crowley’s machinations. The worst scenario, that the Sandalphons had caught and murdered him, was too terrible to contemplate. 

Crowley stood up as he heard the echoing of a pair of boots on the other side of the metal grate that kept him imprisoned. As the owner of the boots came into view, he proved to be wearing a red tailcoat and a black top hat. His black whiskers were perfectly neat and he wore an expression of stern impartiality. Crowley had only one boot, his tailcoat was rumpled, and he hadn’t had a shave this morning, which meant that he was looking considerably less dignified than was optimal, considering what he was about to try to do. But he did his best to hold his head high and to not limp as he picked out a path that avoided stepping on his fellow inmates or any of the other bad-smelling obstacles on the floor. When he reached the metal-grate wall, Crowley stood opposite the neat-as-a-pin constable and drew himself up to his full height, taking the four inch advantage that he had and using it as best he could to project dignity. 

"Mr. Crowley," said the constable. "You've seem to have upset a very important gentleman."

"That's right," replied Crowley. "I have." He used his best posh accent, the one he'd learned at Empyrean Hall. "And I intend to upset another hundred important gentlemen before I'm done."

The corners of the constable's eyes narrowed slightly, and Crowley pressed his advantage. 

"I need to speak to the magistrate immediately," said Crowley. "I have important evidence to give." He leaned forward, towards the grate, and was gratified to see the constable mirror him and lean in closer to him. He glanced around as if he was afraid to be overheard, and he lowered his own voice to a whisper: "There are some very wealthy and noble men," he said, "Who are regularly meeting in a building in London to engage in behavior of the most infamous and indecent kind, and they are looking to silence me before I can expose their address to the public. We must act quickly; they can't have any warning."

***

Aziraphale took his time getting ready to go to the club. He had no valet to help him. And there wasn't much choice of wardrobe in the London house: he had to choose between a waistcoat whose cut no longer favoured him and one whose colour didn't work well with his only available tailcoat. It was a conundrum. Although, really, the thing that bothered him most, when he looked at the man in the mirror, wasn't the clothes he wore at all.

Aziraphale had an ugly squirming feeling in his chest. He knew that he owed Crowley a debt that wasn't going to be easy to pay at all, and he wasn’t even sure what kind of currency could possibly pay it. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about how he had hurt Crowley, he was completely failing at relaxing. What was worse, when he finally climbed into the hireling carriage, he found an engraved brass plate that proclaimed that the carriage belonged to the very company that employed Crowley. The company that Crowley was now a junior partner in. And, though Aziraphale normally had no problem with motion sickness, the twenty minute trip to the club made him feel very queasy indeed. 

When they reached the library that abutted the rear of his club, Aziraphale hopped out of the carriage, gave a very generous tip to the driver, and asked to be picked up at the library again in four hours. Then he walked into the library. He meant to only walk through the building, but he passed a book entitled _The Proceedings of the Royal Astronomical Society,_ and, because it reminded him of Crowley, he took it down from its shelf and opened it. For five minutes, he stared at diagrams of telescopes, as if they could tell him how to adequately apologize to the man whose child he had unnecessarily kept from him for nearly eleven years. Finally, he came to his senses, snapped the book shut and gave himself a talking to: 'You can't mope about and wish for things to be better, you need to take decisive action.' 

He couldn’t give Adam back to his true father, and money and status meant nothing to Crowley, but there was something else that Aziraphale could offer to him, if Crowley was willing to accept it. And, as difficult as it might be, it was worth a try. 'If I’m going to win him back,’ said Aziraphale to himself. ‘I need to show that I’m willing to change my lifestyle for his sake.’ 

Having thus mentally fortified himself, Aziraphale marched out of the side door of the library and into an alley and then into the side door of the discreet gentlemen's club. He greeted the man at the desk, gave his pseudonym, then marched on past the dining room, where only a few gentlemen were enjoying a meal (it being near the end of the London season), and up to the big wooden door that led to the private part of the club. He gave his pseudonym again and made the signs and was allowed to pass the locked door that led to the wonderland of indulgence for wealthy men who loved other men. 

Aziraphale was on a mission. He marched right past the library of erotica without so much as a glance at the titles on the shelf. He took himself past the billiards room (which was empty) and past the smoking room, where the scent of expensive tobacco filled the air. Up on the next floor, he strode past the lecture hall and the ballroom, and then up again to the room on the top floor where public demonstrations of the arts of love were permitted. 

The public lounge was an enormous room with a thirty foot high vaulted ceiling. Its windows were covered in heavy drapes, but it had natural light from an enormous stained glass dome in the ceiling, as well as from the gas lamps on the wall, which were never turned off, no matter how bright the daylight was. On plinths around the room were statues, done in the Greek style, that were meant to inspire the activities that men might undertake in this room. A few ancient Grecian urns depicting scenes of interest to the club members were in niches along one one wall. An enormous oil painting of a Roman orgy scene was on the wall opposite. The room was furnished with a variety of seating surfaces including divan style couches, armchairs, and cushioned benches. 

There was a side table with cheeses, fruits, and bread, another with water, wine, and brandy, and a very long marble-topped counter that had a half-dozen basins of water on top and a shelf underneath with neatly folded towels and discreet little pots and vials.

Despite the fact that it was mid-afternoon near the end of the London season, more than a half-dozen men were in the lounge. One of the gentlemen, a kind older man who Aziraphale knew as Addy, was precisely the person that he had hoped to speak to. 

Alas, Lucien Morningstar was also in the lounge, together with his paramour of the moment, a young blonde whom Aziraphale didn’t know. The young man was completely naked and curled up in Morningstar’s arms, apparently enjoying a post-coital nap. Lucien was talking local politics with six other men who were lounging around wearing, at most, banyans and slippers.

"The public are always panicking over nothing," Lucien was saying. "They can't let a little flooding and a bit of cost overrun discourage them from finishing the project. Sub-aqueous tunnels are the natural answer to the problem of the traffic congestion on the bridges." He looked up and saw Aziraphale and paused his lecture. 

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Aziraphale to the room at large. "I'm wondering if I might ask for some advice." 

"I hope it's not about engineering," said one of the other gentlemen, a man Aziraphale knew as Wag. And everyone laughed a bit nervously. 

"Actually," said Aziraphale. "It's about fuckery."

"You've come to the right place," said Addy. "You just missed a fine demonstration."

"Well," said Aziraphale to Addy. "The thing I'd like to learn--" He could feel his cheeks flushing. "You see I've met someone. And I think he's the sort who likes to be, um, taken care of. And I've never done it."

"Buried your wick in someone's arse?", said a man that Aziraphale knew as Trist.

"But you like to take it," said Morningstar. "Why would you even pursue someone you aren't compatible with? It's a theme with you, Aziraphale. First that unsuitable groom that you mooned after for years, and now-- who is this fellow?"

"He's a member of a different club," said Aziraphale. Which was true. Crowley's molly house was a different club.

"And you want to fuck him?", said Addy.

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "And skillfully. I don't want the first time to be painful or awkward. It's very important to me that I do well.” He sat down on a chaise longue, kept his eyes on Addy’s and ignored Morningstar’s snickers. “You are very experienced, so I hoped you might give me some sound advice to start off."

Addy said: "Start by fucking a servant."

Aziraphale's jaw dropped open, and somebody in the room chuckled. 

"He's so precious, isn't he?", said Morningstar. 

"You're going up to the Sibthorpes’ estate this July, aren't you?", said Addy. "There's a servant there by the name of Edwin. Give him a guinea and you can bend him over a bed and get some practice. That way you won't go off too soon when you finally get to fucking your new paramour."

"Edwin is very willing," said Trist. "But he’s a little too loose for me. I like Rollo over at Rosewood Park. He's nice and tight."

"Owen at Juneau Hall if you’re ever up in Durham,” said Wag. “He's good to suck you at least; I’m not sure how he is for other things."

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He looked around at the men, naked or wearing imported silk wrappers, who were lounging all around him. "Just to be clear," he said. "You have a sort of list of which servants are willing to have relations with the guests?"

Morningstar rolled his eyes. “Fourteen years you’ve been coming here and all you’ve learned is how to organize a symposium.”

But Addy was kinder. “Of course there’s a list. A book actually. I think that Bergie is in charge of keeping it up to date these days. Every decent sized house is represented in the book.” In answer to Aziraphale’s incredulous expression, he added. “Even yours. There used to be a particularly handsome one over at Empyrean Hall. Before your time of course. Almost twenty years ago now.” 

Morningstar's eyes lit up. "Anthony," he said. "The tall ginger. He was beautiful."

"He had a good mouth," said Wag. "He could suck very well."

"You all have me to thank for that," said Morningstar. “I taught him to suck." He smirked. "It took a whole week of training before he could take my cock without crying, but it was worth it. Every time I went back there, he knew just what was expected and he did it right."

"Ah," said Aziraphale. He was, he hoped, keeping his face neutral, though his stomach was churning and he could feel his forehead starting to sweat. 

"I think I was the first to get balls against Anthony's arse," said Trist. "He squealed like a stuck pig." 

Someone in the room sniggered. 

"A lot of men tried to fuck Anthony, including me," said Morningstar. "He never got broken to it. Always fought."

Addy spoke in calm and wise tones: "It's never worth it if they’re going to put up a fuss, that's what I say.” Then he gifted Aziraphale with an encouraging smile. “You want to stick with the willing ones, especially if you're starting out. Edwin, he's willing."

"Look at him," said Morningstar. "Such a dainty thing, he's in shock." He shook his head in a condescending way. "You ought to just drop this new beau. I don't think you've got the temperament to fuck him. You're too soft. Better to just accept your nature."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I need to go. Thank you all. This conversation has been very . . . illuminating." And he fled the room. 

***

The light was better in the new room that Crowley was in. There was a window high up in the stone wall. Also, the screams of the madmen were a bit more distant and quiet. This gaol cell was furnished with a bed, a table, a wash basin, and a lidded bucket. Even better, he only had to share it with three other men. In consideration of the fact that they had his horses impounded, and one of them was valuable, Crowley had been permitted to open a charge account at the gaol and he had used it to purchase writing supplies. He was currently hunched over the spindly table in the corner of the room with his tongue stuck out as he laboriously scratched out the letters. Of all the things he had had to do in the last three days this was, in his opinion, the most intimidating. 

Anthony Crowley was a backwards man. He valued his seventeen year old nag far more highly than the five or six year old half-Arabian gelding that fortune had sent his way. He was a man but he liked to put on a dress and yield his favours like a woman. He preferred that his own son be a farmer than a noble. And today he had found it easier to talk to a magistrate about his imaginary job as a part time free-lance criminal catcher than to write and address a short letter to his boss. 

It didn’t help that watching him write letters was the best entertainment that his cellmates had had in weeks.

“No,” said the man standing over his shoulder. “That’s the wrong spelling.” Crowley was absolutely sure that the last name of the stableman he worked for had a ‘W’ and a ‘G’ in his name, but his opinionated cellmate insisted that it was spelled ‘R-i-t-e’. It was very distracting. Crowley had sent a letter to the stables just two days earlier, and now, under the onslaught of unwanted advice, he was having trouble remembering the correct spelling for the street name where the main office was located. Finally, he decided to just write it in two different ways, in the hopes that one would be correct. 

The first letter, the one to Richard Chancy at the Two Cocks, had taken the better part of an hour, and this one, to Mr. Wright, (which would hopefully ensure that Bentley and Tobacco and the gig were picked up from the impound and taken back to the stables), looked like it would take nearly as long. His hand was cramping. But he had to get the messages through. It was the worst kind of helpless feeling, to be caged like an animal and to know that he was only able to communicate with his allies via the written word. He couldn’t put any subtlety or winks and nods into these missives. Everything was stilted and probably badly misspelled. To complicate matters, he wasn’t allowed to seal his letters before he handed them over his gaoler, so he had to censor himself and just hope that the recipients knew him well enough to read the real message behind his carefully chosen words. 

Sometimes, when he looked back at the early years of his relationship with Aziraphale, Crowley wondered if it was the reliance on letters that had doomed them. He could read every thought that crossed Aziaphale’s face whenever they were together, but it was when they had been separated each year that the disastrous miscommunications had built up. It was hardly fair that Aziraphale could lie so easily with written words. In the last letter that the aristocrat wrote, he’d said that he would be gracious if Crowley were to choose to leave him forever. But his eyes had gleamed with possessive rage when Crowley had told him about Lady Windward. 

Crowley did care very deeply for Windward, it was true. Still, if he had his wish, if there were a way for it to be, he would wake up every morning to see Aziraphale lying next to him. But Anthony Crowley had lived long enough to know that sometimes reality was stronger than wishes. And so he would love Aziraphale for as long as it was possible, until the inevitable day when Aziraphale definitively chose his wealth and position over Crowley. Either that, or he would love Aziraphale until sometime next month when he was hanged in front of Newgate. 

He truly didn’t know if his gambit would work. Crowley thought that he had been convincing to the magistrate, but the Sandalphons were so wealthy and influential that their story might carry the day. And his wild tale of how he stumbled upon the wealthy sodomites’ den of iniquity would fall apart under any serious scrutiny. So he might be bound for the gallows after all. It made him sad to think that the angry words he had said in Tadfield might be the final thing he would ever say out loud to the sweet long-haired boy who had once taught his heart to love. The words in his last note to Aziraphale were only cryptic words of warning. He hadn’t dared to write ‘I love you.’ Maybe Aziraphale had been able to read it in the spaces between the words. 

***

For the first time in his life, Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to read. He was sitting in the private library that was located behind his discreet little club. He was hiding in an armchair in a quiet corner near a window that overlooked the alley, and he was clutching a thin leather bound volume against his fast-beating heart. His arms were crossed over the book. He was holding it as if it were a person that he loved very much. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered to it. ‘I didn’t know.’ 

He sat for a long time, his mind deliberately blank, his breaths deliberately slow. His throat had a horrible lump. His eyes felt sore and sandy. His carriage wouldn’t arrive for another three hours. He really didn’t want to be in this library at all, but there was no way he could have stayed in that club for even a minute more than it took to find this dreadful book and tuck it under his coat. 

Finally, after the long minutes of stillness allowed his heart to slow, Aziraphale stood up and walked over to a table and set the little book down on it. It looked like a ledger. Which is what it was: an accounting of exchanges between men. Aziraphale pulled a wooden chair up and sat down in it. He squared the book on the table in front of him. Then he grasped the front and back covers and let the book fall open. 

At the top of the page was the name and address of a great house. Below that, arranged in neat little columns were a name ('Jasper, 2nd footman'), some dates, some coarse words, and then, in the right margin: 'v willing'. That was it. The rest of the page was blank. Aziraphale blinked back tears. Jasper, wherever he was, was probably long past his days of being a footman. He'd have to be at least fifty years old. If he was still alive. 'I hope you really were willing,' whispered Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He kept waiting for some sort of shift in his body that would let him know that he was ready to start turning to the page for Empyrean Hall. He was expecting that, sooner or later, a surge of energy would tell him that his courage had arrived. Instead, he felt a very strong urge to get up and pace. He indulged this desire, reasoning that activity would increase his bravery. At first it seemed to work. His mind felt clear for a moment, and he sat down with purpose. But when he reached out to start turning the pages of the dreadful ledger book, he felt a sinkhole opening up in his chest. 

Aziraphale closed the book. He didn't need to see the name 'Anthony' listed out like an item on a menu. He didn't need to see whether Anthony was 'willing' or 'difficult' or whether he expected payment or any of the rest. He didn't want to know what words Lucien or any of the others had used to describe what had happened to Crowley. Because Crowley had already told him without words. He'd communicated it in the way he needed to be in charge of his life, in all the ways that he wouldn't let himself be touched, in his angry silences, and, above all, in his refusal to ever set foot in Empyrean Hall again. 

Aziraphale tucked the ledger into his tailcoat. There was no pocket big enough for it. He just slid it against his ribs and crossed his arms over it to hold it in place. Then he sat by a window to wait for his carriage. It started to rain, which seemed fair. He couldn’t let himself cry here in public, but he pretended that the drops rolling down the panes of the mullioned window were his own shameful tears.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered to the raindrops. 'You tried to tell me and I didn't understand.' The other men in the library moved to other sections, and he was alone for a moment. He put his knuckle into his mouth and sucked on it, rocking his whole body back and forth. 'What do I do now?' he thought. 'I was friends with them. There were always jokes about servants. They made jokes out of it and I thought it was in bad taste, but I assumed it was pretend. I didn't know they hurt you. Why didn't I know?'

He felt like he was swimming out of his depth, trying to find the sandy bottom with his toes so that he could get a moment of rest and maybe not drown. ‘My friends aren't all monsters,' he said to himself. But, under his coat, he had the proof that they were. 

Aziraphale remembered a time when he had been engaged with a less than skilled lover, and the sensations had gotten a bit unpleasant, and he'd decided that the best course was to do what was necessary to speed things along. To avoid the confrontation. Afterwards, he'd felt sick. Not just physically, but also in his soul. As if he'd misplaced reality itself. It felt a bit like he felt right now.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the library window to stop the world from spinning. On the other side of the pane, the rain drops slipped down. He watched a big one race along and gobble up a bunch of littler ones and leave a clear trail behind itself. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and he could see, with terrible clarity, how Lucien Morningstar might have abused Crowley. Morningstar had a reputation, even in the club; those with something to prove liked to brag that they could take him at his most aggressive and even like it. He was only gentle by special request, and a servant wouldn’t be in a position to make requests. 

‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ he said to himself. ‘Surely they can’t all be so cruel as Lucien?’

Aziraphale had actually been intimate with Trist. They'd done the ultimate act, several times. And Trist had been perfectly courteous and very skilled. 'It happened twenty years ago,' he told himself. 'Trist was too young to know what he was doing when he was with Crowley. It was an accident.' But if it was an accident, then why the lack of shame, now? Had he hurt Crowley on purpose? Or did he just not care that he had? Or did he care, but he was making a joke because admitting to caring about servants' feelings wasn't done? 

No. There was no excuse for Trist, or any of them. Addy had said exactly what they all thought: servants were for practice. 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms more tightly around himself and the ledger. He hated it, but it was precious to him because the fact that there was a record meant that there was a way to bear witness to what had happened. To what would happen again this summer, when wealthy men started to roam the countryside in search of diversions. Diversions who were people. 

The hours crawled by and his mind settled back into blankness. He watched the droplets on the window pane. He felt chilly all over and he wrapped his arms around himself even tighter, pressing the ledger into his ribs so that it hurt a little. The ache was comforting. As if his pain was helping to make some sort of payment to the men whose names were inside the book. 

His mind drifted to the dueling pistols that were in the safe in the desk at home. He had never participated in a duel before, but this was precisely the sort of situation that called for a duel. But who would be his second? Who else could be persuaded that the honour of a house servant was worth dying for? And would he even have the courage to go through with challenging Lucien Morningstar? ‘I would if Crowley asked me to,’ Aziraphale thought. ‘For him, I would face death.’ 

He had a momentary fantasy of the night before the big duel: He pictured himself holding Crowley in his arms, covering him with kisses and then making love to him until all the pain of Crowley’s past was undone. But then he felt the ledger digging into his ribs and he realized that it would be fundamentally unfair for him to ever ask Crowley to engage in any deed of pleasure again. That's what Crowley had tried to tell him in Tadfield. And now he understood why. There was no true consent when things were so unequal. 

'But our love was real at the start,' he said to himself. 'When I was so much younger than he was, and he had to teach me everything.' 

Another wave of sorrow crested and Aziraphale buried his face in his hands and pressed on his eyes so he wouldn’t cry in public. 'He was so very, very gentle with me. How was he so gentle when he'd never known gentleness?', he thought. He remembered the first time that he'd taken Crowley's prick into his mouth. They were in a dark shed full of scythes and shovels off near the woods. Aziraphale had wanted to show off and instead he’d made himself retch. Crowley had pulled him up off of his knees and into his arms. 'Are you all right?' he'd asked. 'We can do something else today.' 

'I was never gracious when we were at the act of love,' thought Aziraphale. 'I was demanding. I just expected him to please me.' And Crowley had been very pleasing. In all the years since their marriage ended, Aziraphale had never managed to find another lover as skilled or as kind. 'That's why I wanted him in Tadfield,' Aziraphale thought. 'Because I wanted him to make me feel good. But it was never a fair arrangement. How could he ever ask me for what he really wanted when I had his son in my power?' 

At one point, Aziraphale’s mournful thoughts were interrupted by a bit of excitement in the alley outside of his window. A pair of Bow Street Runners and a bunch of other official looking men went thundering past. A minute later, there was a clanging of bells. No doubt some sort of criminal was being arrested in the street. It was an unusual happening in this upscale neighbourhood and another man who was in the library got up and went outside to see what was happening, but Aziraphale didn't really care to know. He'd had enough excitement for one day already and his day wasn't anywhere near over. He needed to go to Crowley’s stable and abase himself. 

'I'll offer to duel for his honour,' he thought. 'Or else I will be his servant even though I'm a peer. I'll go to Parliament and give speeches advocating for all the reforms he wants. I'll be his mouthpiece. Whatever he asks of me, I must do it. I’m his man now.'

When his pocket watch told him that it was time, he went out to the pavement in front of the library and waited. There was still a bit of noise coming from the alley next to the library. The carriage was late by ten minutes and, when he arrived, the driver let him know that there was some activity happening one street over. "There's a big raucous crowd, sir," he said. "Very sorry for the delay in getting you home." 

"Actually," said Aziraphale. "I was wondering if you might take me back to your stables. I'd like to speak with Mr. Anthony Crowley."

"Sir," said the driver, "I am truly sorry for my lateness, there was no avoiding it. Please don’t complain to my employer, sir."

It was the work of several minutes to convince the poor driver that the aristocrat who was refusing to get into the carriage was actually a personal friend of Mr. Anthony Crowley, and then the driver’s expression turned to one of deep concern. 

"Do you happen to know what is the matter, sir?", said the driver. "Only Mr. Crowley sent a letter saying that we should expect him home this morning and he hasn’t arrived."

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley decides to give evidence against the men of the "Rich Molly House" in order to gain his freedom. Meanwhile, Aziraphale visits his social club and asks the men for advice on how to top. They tell him to practice on a servant, and reveal the existence of a ledger book that records details of sexual encounters with male servants in country houses all over England, Scotland and Wales. They also specifically mention a certain "handsome ginger" from nearly 20 years ago and compare notes about him and how they treated him.


	30. Conflagration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley fail to meet up. So Aziraphale returns home to find his cousin waiting for him. Their confrontation is heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Fire, homophobia, threatened gun violence

  
  


The hireling carriage pulled up in front of Crowley’s stables with a series of jerks. The horses clearly wanted to walk on to get to the yard; they weren’t used to stopping in front of the office. It was still raining when Aziraphale got out of the cab, and he turned his head up toward the sky so that the rain mingled with his tears. That was the best he could do to look respectable. He had been crying for the entire ride, desperately afraid that brigands had left Crowley for dead on the side of the highway and that he might never get a chance to apologise to the lover that he had treated so poorly. 

Wiping the liquid off of his face with one hand, Aziraphale marched his disheveled self directly to the stable office and rapped on the door. Another man with fly-away white hair answered it, except that this man had clearly earned his white hair over the course of a life that had been twice the length of Aziraphale’s.

When Aziraphale introduced himself, the old man bowed, introduced himself as Mr. Wright, and led him into a tiny and crowded office and shut both of its doors. 

“Has Mr. Crowley returned?”, said Aziraphale. He held the terrible ledger tight against his ribs with one elbow. 

The old man shook his head and made a complicated expression with his lips as if he were sucking on something sour. "He sent a letter that said to expect him this morning. Said he had a very bad time on the road, and would need help when he arrived. Do you know anything about what happened, sir?” 

“I last saw him in Oxfordshire,” said Aziraphale. “Three days ago. He was headed for London.” 

"Ah,” said Wright. “You must be acquainted with his cousin Constance, the one that looks after his son?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. It was such a relief to have a ready cover story presented to him. "I'm Constance's husband. Adam is very dear to us both, as is his father, Mr. Crowley.” He took a deep breath. “I’m very concerned for him. His horse is old, and he was travelling alone and unarmed. He’d have been an easy mark for brigands.”

Mr. Wright shook his head. "Brigands wouldn't be likely, sir; they'll attack a coach, not a gig. 'Tis likely some trouble with the horse. He really should have taken a different animal, but he thinks so highly of that old mare."

"Well," said Aziraphale. "Whatever has happened, we are going to find him and Bentley both. Where was the letter posted from?”

“Someplace called Nettlebed. Never heard of it.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “I know exactly where that is. We’ll need to send out riders to search for him on all the likely routes between Nettlebed and London. Do any of your men ride? I'll hire all those who can."

Over the next forty-five minutes, Aziraphale felt that he finally came to understand the true value of being able to simply reach into one’s purse and pull out a pile of coins. Money was power. This was what money could do: it could mobilize men and horses, allowing them to leave their work for days and feed themselves on the road. It could save Crowley from whatever danger he was in, and bring him home safely. 

A plan was made. Crude maps were drawn and men and horses were assigned to routes. Between Crowley's stable and the other stables that shared the yard in back, there were eight men and horses that could ride out. It was agreed that a calm riding horse would be given to Aziraphale, but that the other searchers would not slow down for him if he couldn't keep up. Aziraphale personally verified that every one of the proposed searchers knew the tall scarred ginger man and his cantankerous old black mare. 

Alas for Aziraphale's nerves, there was only a little more than an hour remaining before nightfall, and the already inadequate crescent moon was hidden behind clouds, so the search couldn't be mounted until morning. But fortunately, it was late in June, and so the night would be short. "We leave at first light," said Aziraphale. "Which means that every man should rouse himself no later than three AM so that we can leave by four."

Aziraphale resolved to sleep in the stable’s hayloft overnight, but he needed to return home to put the ledger of abuses into his safe and to fetch better clothes for riding. He didn’t have his deerskin breeches but he could at least find some sturdier clothes and a pair of boots. 

***

“What happened to your other boot, dear?”, said Richard Chancy. 

An entire welcome party was waiting for Crowley outside of Newgate. Even in the pouring rain, and wearing a heavy wool coat, Richard Chancy was unmistakable. His great height and his clean shaven face were distinctive. (The Queen Mother couldn’t have whiskers, no matter how fashionable they might be.) Paul Waxdall, the duke, was there as well. George Langley, the Lady Windward, was there, and dressed as a neat little customs clerk. He was soaking wet in a fashionably thin little summer tailcoat and he was wringing his hands in concern. Miss Crier, whose real name Crowley didn't know, was wrestling with both Tobacco and Bentley on the slippery mud-covered stones of the yard in front of Newgate Gaol. 

"There's my love," Crowley said. And he went directly to the one he had missed the most. "That's my Bentley. You look terrible. Did they feed you rotten hay? Was there no brush in that horrible place?" 

"To be fair," said Crier, "They were terrified of her. She bit one of the grooms in the impound stable."

"He must have been a bad groom, then," said Crowley. 

“And you have to come back tomorrow for your gig,” said Crier. “The man with the key has gone home for the night.”

They all embraced Crowley, briefly, in a manly fashion, and not at all as they would have if they were in safety. Windward was the most demonstrative: he whispered affectionate nonsense into Crowley’s ear and squeezed his shoulder. Once the greetings were done, they spoke of their urgent business.

"I called at Mr. Fell's house," said Waxdall. "Just as you asked. He wasn't there. I left one of Constance’s old calling cards with the doorman. But he said your Angel arrived home and left soon after."

Crowley nearly collapsed with relief. "He got home safe," he said. "And if he left right away, that means he must have got my letter. He'll know to keep away from his relatives."

"No word yet of where he's holed up," said Richard Chancy, Queen Mother and criminal mastermind. "I've got people looking out for him all over the city."

"He'll send word to my stables," said Crowley. "So I'll take the horses there and wait for his message. I'll head to court as soon as I've got it, and then we’ll make our plan from there." 

Now that he was satisfied that his angel was safe, Crowley looked over both of his horses very carefully. Tobacco seemed reasonably well cared for. But not Bentley. Her hooves had been completely neglected. He pulled a pick out of his pocket and got to work. 

“Will you please tell us your news?”, said Windward. “The gaoler seems to think you are some sort of hero.”

“There’s been strange things happening out here, while we were waiting for them to release you,” said Crier. “They brought in a wagonload of nobs. All of ‘em in their fancy silks and fine top hats.”

Crowley cast a nervous glance at the Queen and the Duke.

“None of them had white hair,” said Waxdall. “I checked every one. Fourteen men.” 

Chancy raised a single eyebrow, which let Crowley know that he expected a full explanation of what Crowley had to do with the arrest of the aristocrats. 

“Right,” said Crowley. “Story’s too good to waste telling it in the rain. I’ll save it for court. Hold this.” He took the saddle off of Tobacco, and handed it to Windward, who struggled under the weight of it as Crowley tacked up his new horse again. He found three pieces of straw and a pebble under the saddle cloth, which justified his mistrust. He tacked his horse right, cursing the impound stable as he catalogued all fresh scuffs they had left on the fine new saddle that he had just won for himself. 

It was a quarter till nine when Crowley swung himself up onto his damp saddle and took leave of his friends. The street lighters were already over an hour into their evening’s work, though the summer light wouldn’t completely fade until after ten pm. The rain was chilly. Crowley had no hat, so it soaked his hair and rolled down the back of his head into his cravat. His unshod foot was covered in wet rags and kept slipping in the stirrup. Tobacco felt the single heel digging into his side and kept listing in the opposite direction. 

Tobacco wasn't sure whether he liked being ridden in the city, but he knew what was good for him and he accepted Crowley's will. Bentley was less agreeable. She did not like the lead rope at all. She kept shoving at Crowley with her muzzle to tell him that he was making a terrible mistake by riding Tobacco, and, when he told her off, she started trying to intimidate the hapless gelding. He kept shying away from her and the entire ride was a wrestling match, as Tobacco couldn’t decide whether to listen to Bentley or his rider. When they finally reached the neighbourhood of the stables, Bentley pulled on her lead rope until Crowley gave her enough slack that she could stride out ahead of Tobacco and lead them all home. 

When the three of them arrived in the yard, they were instantly surrounded by a crowd. Lots of people were talking all at once. It seemed Crowley’s second letter, the one he had posted from gaol, hadn’t reached the stable and everyone had feared the worst. The stable hands all wanted to hear what had happened, but Tobacco was overwhelmed, and Bentley was expressing her strong desire to get indoors. Even Crowley was finding himself confused by the clamour. Conditions in Newgate Gaol had been less than restful, and he was dead tired from his three days of adventures. He dismounted and let one of Tobacco’s many admirers take him in, while he was forced to accept a half-dozen embraces before he was allowed to lead Bentley across the yard and into her second favourite stall.

As soon as Crowley had Bentley tied up, Mr. Wright grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace. Then he pushed himself away and studied Crowley’s scruffy wet face. “You had us all worried,” he said. “What happened to you? Where’s your gig? Where did you get the dun gelding?”

“It’s a simple story,” said Crowley. “I was on the road home and I got an opportunity to trade a hat, a boot, and a tin of snuff for this fine young horse. So I took the deal.”

Wright shook his head. “Mr. Crowley,” he said. “You’ll be the death of me.”

***

There was no shortage of volunteers to tend to Tobacco, and Bentley consented to being rubbed down by one of the experienced grooms, though she snorted at him and bared her teeth to remind him of his place.

Crowley sat on an overturned bucket and unwrapped the filthy wet bandages from his foot before they could give him sores. “Have I had any messages or callers?”, he asked Mr. Wright. 

"Your cousin's husband came here," said Mr. Wright. 

Crowley had no cousins, and his mind was a bit addled from the exhausting experiences of the last few days, but he kept silent. He'd learned, in his years as a boss in the stables, that looking slightly stern and slightly thoughtful made people elaborate. And the technique worked on Mr. Wright.

"Constance’s husband,” he said. “Mr. Fell.”

“My what?”, said Crowley. But Wright didn’t even notice his slip.

“Fell was dreadfully worried about you,” said Wright. “I’ve never seen a wealthy man so distraught. He wouldn’t hear of waiting till tomorrow afternoon. He hired an eight-man searching party to start at first light. Just dropped twelve pounds right on my desk. And he questioned every man among them to make sure they knew you. He was furious when we told him that we couldn’t start tonight. I think he’d have torn the stars out of the sky if it could have made dawn come any faster.” 

Crowley’s heart started to flutter. It was all too good to be true. He had been released from gaol and Aziraphale was claiming him as his husband again. There were still other little problems to be worked out such as the fact that he had no shoes and also that the powerful Sandalphon-Fell family was trying to kill them both, but those things didn’t matter because everything important was falling into place. Aziraphale was safe and Crowley was free. And they both loved each other again. If all went well, he might even find himself sleeping in Aziraphale’s arms tonight. 

There was only one thing that didn’t make sense. 

“Where is Mr. Fell now?”, said Crowley. 

“Ah,” said Wright. “He should be back in a few minutes. He hired a carriage so that he could fetch some things he needed for the search tomorrow.”

Crowley blinked. He was really exhausted, which must be why things seemed so confusing. “What shops are open at nine thirty at night?”, he asked. 

“None,” said Wright. “He went home, of course.”

***

When he got back home again, Aziraphale was shaking with nervous energy. He expected that it would take him at least forty-five minutes to pack and to write a note to his accountants to cancel the meetings this week, and so he told the carriage driver to pull around to the mews street to keep the horses out of the rain. He would send a servant down to the stables to let him know when he was ready to depart. 

When Aziraphale got into the front hall, he still had the damned ledger book under his arm. The young footman, Isaac, tried to take his gloves, walking stick, and hat and there was a bit of a confused wrestling match, as Aziraphale refused to set the ledger down for even a moment and he was too tired to figure out how to move it from hand to hand. 

"Your cousin Michael arrived an hour ago," said Issac. The poor young man was grimacing. His eyes were wide and he made a funny huffing noise as if he was trying very hard to find the right words. “He’s in the library.”

"Oh," said Aziraphale. He hadn't expected Gabriel to die so soon. "I'll head up directly, then." This was a big problem, because, whether or not his uncle was dead, he intended to head out to search for Crowley, and he did not wish to tell his cousin where he was going or why. So he was going to have to briefly greet his cousin, act appropriately sombre, and then rush upstairs to pack his clothes and leave. He decided that the best way to escape would be to sneak downstairs, through the servants’ area underground, and then up to the stables. For now, he climbed the stairs to the first floor, walked along the corridor, and pushed open the door to the library. "You could have sent a message," he said, as he stepped inside the enormous room. 

***

Aziraphale was confused, because there was no one in the library. The floor length curtains were drawn in front of all three sets of windows, so that the sound of the rain outside was very muffled. There was a lit candelabra on the desk as well as an open decanter of brandy, but there was no one at the desk. The three little armchairs under the left and center windows were all empty. The chaise longue for reading under the south bookshelves was empty except for a pair of shears and some clothesline. There was actually a fire burning in the fireplace. But the two armchairs in front of it seemed to be empty. The big table that was in the far corner between the fireplace and the right window was covered in papers, and it had a lit candelabra on top of it as well as an empty glass tumbler. But there was no one there.

Aziraphale turned to look at the desk again, and he saw that his in-box was empty and that the desk was at a slightly funny angle. As he stepped forward into the room to get a better look, two things happened: The door shut on its own and he heard a clicking sound. 

He turned around to see a pistol pointed at his face.

"Ohhhh!", cried Aziraphale. At first, his eyes refused to focus anywhere but at the tiny metal circle hovering a few inches from his nose. But then he managed to look past it and saw that the hand holding the pistol belonged to Michael, and that Michael's face was quite red. Aziraphale felt a thousand tiny muscles in his body clench with terror. Even his arsehole slammed shut. 'At least I won't shit myself,' his racing thoughts supplied. The muscles of his arms were trying to tear themselves apart in order to clench more tightly around the awful ledger he was holding against his chest. 

“How’s this for a message?”, said Michael. 

And suddenly there was a large person standing at his side and twisting his wrist behind his back. Aziraphale dropped the precious ledger to the floor and stumbled toward the desk, driven by a strong and unfriendly man. He twisted his head to see who it was. And he recognized the man.

"Mr. Tarry?!”, said Aziraphale. "But he's my valet!"

"He'll be mine after today," said Michael. "As he was hired with the expectation that he would serve the next earl." He pointed the pistol at Aziraphale’s belly. “Where are the keys to the desk?” 

Aziraphale patted the front pocket of his breeches with the hand that wasn’t being twisted behind his back. His pocket jingled. Michael made an impatient gesture with the pistol, and Aziraphale fished the keys out and held them up. 

Michael took the keys and tossed them onto the desk. “Check all his pockets,” he said. And he pointed the pistol at Aziraphale’s chest. 

Aziraphale had a sudden sick feeling. Crowley had been taken on the road, after all. And the men who had captured him hadn't been after his cranky old horse or his deathtrap of a gig. They'd wanted him for questioning. Aziraphale forced his eyes closed, despite the pistol that was pointing at him. The name 'Crowley' filled his mind like a mantra and he found his thoughts arranging themselves into an eerie clarity. If Michael was trying to seize the estate by force, his own life was almost certainly forfeit, but if he could just figure out the right things to say, he might be able to save Crowley's life. 

“Really,” said Aziraphale, as the valet pulled off his tailcoat and threw it to the floor. “There’s no need to be so unpleasant.” A pair of enormous hands groped around in the front pockets of his breeches with no consideration whatsoever for the sensitivity of the delicate organs beneath. “You could just ask for whatever it is you need,” said Aziraphale. “What’s this about anyway?” The valet threw Aziraphale’s handkerchief and empty purse to the floor. “Stop it,” said Aziraphale. He heard his own voice and it seemed unnaturally high pitched. “You are being very rude.” The valet’s hand groped over his thigh and pulled out a comb and some sweets. 

Still pointing the pistol at Aziraphale, Michael pulled the swivel chair out from behind the desk and dragged it next to the center window. 

"Make the dog sit," said Michael. And the valet pushed Aziraphale toward the chair and forced him to sit in it. Michael leaned against the desk and pointed the pistol at Aziraphale while the valet tied his arms and legs to the arms and legs of the wooden chair. The way the swivel worked was that the seat and arms and back of the chair were one unit and they rotated independently of the squat four legged stool that formed the base of the chair. So Aziraphale could twist back and forth a bit, if he wanted to. But, considering that he was staring down the barrel of a pistol, he found that he did not want to move at all. 

He felt sweat starting to bead on his forehead. A single curl of hair fell against his forehead, and it was itchy. But, of course, he couldn’t move his hand to brush the curl out of the way. Michael sat on the desk and held the pistol, while Mr. Tarry emptied the pockets of his tailcoat.

Then the two of them tried the keys in the locks of the desk drawers. There were eleven drawers, and they required four different keys between them, and they kept guessing the wrong keys, and even trying the same wrong ones twice. Aziraphale had to suppress his natural instinct to say something helpful. Then he realized that the fabric on the underside of his thigh was pinching, and he wriggled a little to try to make it less irritating. 

One of the keys finally worked, and the valet pulled an entire drawer out of the desk. At Michael’s direction, he carried it past Aziraphale and set it down in the middle of the big table. 

Aziraphale found his voice again, and it only warbled a little. “Is there something in particular you are looking for?”, he asked. He had a wild thought that, if he could figure out what Michael was after, then perhaps he could trade it for Crowley’s freedom. If Crowley was still alive. Which he must be. Because he hadn’t yet heard Aziraphale’s apology. And it wouldn’t be fair for their last ever conversation to have been an argument. “I’m sure there must be something you want from me,” said Aziraphale. 

“Shut him up,” said Michael. And the valet stuffed Aziraphale’s own handkerchief and purse into his mouth and secured them by wrapping a length of clothesline around his face a few times and tying it at the back of his neck. Aziraphale retched and struggled for a moment, then some instinct kicked in which let him relax his jaw completely, and he found that being gagged wasn’t unbearably uncomfortable. He reflected that, if he was going to die today, at least he would die with the knowledge that his years of sucking pricks had given him a skill that was useful in emergency situations. 

As Aziraphale worked on perfecting a new breathing pattern to accommodate the gag, Michael tossed the keys to Mr. Tarry. “Bring the drawers over to me as you get them,” he said. 

Michael picked up two pieces of paper and purposefully set them down on the edge of the table nearest to Aziraphale. Then he took the first drawer and turned it upside down to dump its contents out onto the large table. He set the drawer on its end on the floor between the fireplace and the bookshelf. Then he gave his attention to the pile of papers on the table and started to read through them, setting them aside one by one, as he finished with them. 

Aziraphale craned his neck to look at the two papers that had been set down near him. He saw that they were letters. The one on top was written by an all too familiar hand. It said:

_A_

_You are in danejar. Your famlee is aftar us boath. I was attaked on the rode rite after we parted. Fawt them off but can’t find you. Pleeez get to safe randayvoo then contak me at my plase of bizness._

_C_

Despite the bleakness of his own circumstances, Aziraphale’s heart soared at the news that Crowley was safe. Everything suddenly made sense. Crowley was delayed in returning to London because he was attacked and then he was searching for Aziraphale. But since Aziraphale had taken an unexpected route home, Crowley hadn’t found him. But Crowley was safe. Which was the only thing that really mattered at all. 

Now that he knew that the one he loved was alive and well, Aziraphale started to feel a certain detachment. He could feel the cords restricting his movements and the hardness of the wooden seat under his bottom. But at the same time he felt a bit like he was standing outside of his own body as he calmly watched what his cousin was doing. 

Michael had developed a system for ransacking the desk. When the valet discovered the right key for a particular drawer, he pulled it out of the desk and brought it over to Michael who emptied the contents onto the table, and then stacked the drawer itself on the floor between the bookshelf and the fireplace. Michael was being perfectly methodical. He even had his valet set a bin next to him. Every single object was handled and set into its proper place. There was the bin, where broken pen knives and bits of wax were thrown, the pile of useful writing supplies, where quills and ink pots went, the piles of useless papers, and the one small pile of useful papers, which was next to Aziraphale’s side of the table. One tin proved impossible for Michael to classify: it contained reusable prophylactic sheaths. Michael pitched them, tin and all, directly into the fire. 

“Is that all?”, said Michael. “Did you get the safe underneath?”

“No,” said the valet. He crouched down in front of the desk. Then he crawled underneath with the keys and tried them one after another until he finally unlocked the hidden kneehole safe. First, he brought the dueling pistols over to Michael, who granted them a new spot in his table-based organizational scheme. Then the valet crawled back under the desk and emerged with the leather folder containing Adam’s legitimation paperwork and also the wooden box of Uncle Gabriel’s love letters. When he carried them over to Michael’s sorting table, Aziraphale twisted his upper body to follow the valet’s progress across the room. Michael noticed his interest, and he left off going through papers to pay special attention to the new objects he was being given. 

Michael opened the box of Gabriel’s love letters first. He flipped through them with his fingers, rolled his eyes, and then closed the wooden box. Turning around, he leaned over the teetering pile of drawers that was now piled up in the space between the table and the fireplace and he tossed the box of letters into the fire. The valet hastened over to the fireplace, picked up a pair of fire tongs, and did something. Presumably he was repositioning the box more safely in the fireplace. Meanwhile, Michael had turned his attention to the leather folder that contained Adam’s legitimization documents. His eyebrows went up as he read. His lips were a tight line when he turned to look at Aziraphale. 

"I don't think you had anything to do with the death of my son," said Michael. “Which is why you are still alive right now.” He placed Adam’s legitimization paperwork in the pile of important documents that included the letters of warning that Crowley had written to Aziraphale. "But for all that you pretended to love him, you were willing to displace your own nephew in order to make this 'Adam’ your heir. That was a very cold thing to do." 

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in answer. If he could have talked, he might have explained that he hadn’t made Adam his heir until months after Michael’s son had died. But he would have graciously acknowledged the fact that he was a bit cold towards his own adult relatives before pointing out that, considering the position he was in right now, he couldn't bring himself to feel any regrets whatsoever about his actions. Michael seemed to gather the essential snide nature of Aziraphale’s unvoiced answer, and he responded with cold fury. 

“Damned sodomite,” he said. “Did Anthony Crowley catch you in the act? Has he been blackmailing you all these years? Is that the reason you were willing to slip a cuckoo into the Fell family nest?" 

Recalling the moonlit night when Crowley had taught him 'the act', Aziraphale rolled his eyes. It was a joke for an audience of one. Considering that his own death was likely to be imminent, Aziraphale was surprised to find himself making jokes in his mind. Terror and amusement seemed like strange bedfellows, but having strange bedfellows was a way of life for a man like himself, so he decided that he might as well stick with it all the way to the end. 

Michael stood in front of Aziraphale and ranted: "You’ve completely convinced our uncle that the boy is yours," he said. "I can't argue him off of the point. He tells me that you acted the very part of the devoted father for over ten years." 

Aziraphale felt his eyes smiling. The way that he had helped raise Adam was something he was truly proud of. And he felt secure that Adam and his family wouldn’t be blamed for any of this, as he had been the one to lie to them. It was nice to think that, even if Adam wouldn’t get any part of the estate, there was no way for Michael to take back Adam’s education or the good healthy start that he had had. So if Aziraphale did die today, at least he had left a legacy in Tadfield. 

"You even fooled me for a time, said Michael. “When that baby appeared at our gatehouse, I was convinced that you were a normal man, with normal appetites. After all, a sodomite is hardly going to father a child." 

Aziraphale tilted his head in amusement. The sodomites he knew, at least those who were first born sons, had just as many children as other men of their social class did. His own purposeful childlessness was an exception. 

Michael seemed to understand Aziraphale's expression as mockery and he scowled.

Meanwhile, the valet was ransacking Aziraphale’s portable desk. All of the keys on the keyring had failed to unlock it, and so he had set the pretty little walnut box onto the floor and stomped on it with his heel until the wood splintered and it fell open. Some pieces of correspondence between Aziraphale and his lawyers and accountants were there, and the valet dutifully brought them over to Michael who read them and put them in the small pile on the left side of the table, on top of Adam’s legitimization papers. The valet threw the broken pieces of the portable desk onto the top of the stack of drawers. They fell from the top of the pile and Aziraphale heard the remains of his trusty old companion shatter into pieces on the stone hearth. 

Michael was furious: "But the boy looks nothing like you at all,” he said. “My valet heard you say so yourself. Adam is Mr. Crowley's son. And you are a dog who betrayed your own flesh and blood so that you could pursue your dissolute lifestyle in our house using our money."

Aziraphale took note of the particular word choices. They didn’t bode well for his chances of long term survival. His cousin was clearly trying to talk himself into taking drastic action. Michael didn’t even meet Aziraphale’s eyes as he ranted and worked his way through the last of the papers. 

"You were never going to marry and give us a real heir," he said. "I don't think men like you are capable of love. You certainly had no love for any of us. You were perfectly content to leave our family's property to a stranger if it meant that your secret was never revealed." 

That was uncomfortably close to the actual truth. And it was certainly as much of the truth as any one who wasn't constituted to love their own sex could possibly understand. It didn't matter that Aziraphale's mouth was stopped shut, because there was no way to explain that could ever be understood. 

"We will find out the complete story," said Michael, "As soon as we recapture Mr. Crowley." 

Rather than filling him with fear, hearing Michael’s boast filled Aziraphale with a dark sort of glee. His fiendishly clever lover had fought off Michael's men when he was all alone on the road and he still hadn’t been recaptured. By now Crowley was probably in London and all of his network of criminal friends had come to his aid. Which meant he would never be found. And Aziraphale would never speak a single word to incriminate him or help Michael to find him. Not that he could speak. At this particular moment, he could only wriggle in his chair and salivate around his gag and watch what his cousin did. 

Michael picked up the teetering piles of papers that he thought were useless and stacked them onto the seat of the wingback chair in front of the fire so that he could burn them. Michael couldn’t walk directly to the fireplace because of all the empty drawers that blocked his path, so he went around. Because the armchairs blocked his view, Aziraphale couldn’t quite see what Michael was up to, but judging by the way the fire flared up, he could guess what was happening. He saw a half burned piece of paper go flying up the chimney. He tried to make a warning noise, but the valet also saw the danger and came over to assist. 

The valet went over to the tinder box and grabbed a few medium sized logs from it. Then he kneeled out of view. Michael stood up and handed the papers down, and, presumably, the valet made some sort of arrangement of wood and paper so that the papers would burn without flying away up the chimney or out into the library. Aziraphale heard the sound of the valet blowing at the base of the fire, then there was a ‘whoosh’ as the paper caught, and then Mr. Tarry jumped to his feet, rubbing at his face. 

Both men retreated from the wall of heat. Aziraphale couldn’t see the fire from where he was, because the armchairs were in the way. But he could tell, from the light reflecting off of all the bookshelf-covered walls and off the ceiling, that it was high. 

“Singed my eyebrows,” said Tarry. “It caught faster than I expected.” 

“Let's tidy up,” said Michael. “Then we’ll decide what to do with my cousin.”

Michael came close to Aziraphale again. He smiled a thin smile at him as he picked up Adam’s legitimization paperwork and the other things he deemed important and moved them to the center of his table. He opened up the leather folder, and gave the legitimization paperwork a closer reading. Then he spoke again. Aziraphale assumed that the words were meant for him to hear, though Michael never met his eyes. 

“In addition to the crimes you were blackmailed for, you’ve perjured yourself with these documents,” said Michael. “My man will testify to that. But I don’t know how much I’m willing to embarrass the family, so I’m not sure yet whether you’ll hang. I think it depends on you.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He was pretty sure he’d not be able to meet Michael’s requirements to ‘not embarrass the family.’ Therefore, it would probably be a few more days, or maybe even months, of being treated like an animal before he was executed. Which was a terribly depressing thing to have to look forward to. He was not yet thirty-three years old, and he was going to die an ignominious death, probably after a period of public humiliation. Crowley had been right, as usual. Fifteen torturous years of living with his terrible family had come to nothing. He should have gone off and lived with the one he loved and enjoyed a few years of genuine happiness rather than trying to win the whole estate that he thought he was entitled to. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath in the only way he could: by flaring his nostrils. He tried to look on the bright side. It hadn’t all been a loss. Adam was likely to live a long and happy life, and Crowley had found a new lover who could satisfy him in ways that Aziraphale never had. So at least he could go to his death knowing that his most dearly loved ones would be happy. His poor sisters would get nothing, but that was not to be helped. He’d tried his best. 

“Excuse me, sir,” said the valet. “We forgot something.” Aziraphale opened his eyes and saw Mr. Tarry bending over to pick up the terrible ledger book that Aziraphale had dropped when Tarry had twisted his arm behind his back. Despite the cloth stuffed in his mouth, Aziraphale made a noise of distress. He’d forgotten all about the ledger. The fragile equanimity that he’d built in his mind shattered completely as he realized that the lives of all the servants in that book were going to be in the hands of his awful cousin. Which meant that a hundred men could hang and it would be his fault. 

"What’s this, then?”, said Michael, as he accepted the ledger. And he turned and spoke directly to Aziraphale. “Is this an accounting of how you've been swindling the estate?" he said. “How courteous of you to keep records.” Aziraphale felt angry tears forming in his eyes. His inner monologue turned into a stream of curses. 

Michael’s eyes flicked across the pages as he leafed through the ledger. By the fourth page, his expression changed. His lip curled and he made a face as if someone had served him carrion for supper. Then he pressed his lips together and started turning the pages of the book with purpose until he reached a page that he was particularly interested in. He read that one page very slowly. Then he stared at the curtains and massaged his own mouth and chin. Finally, he snapped the ledger shut and carefully placed it in front of him on the big table, with the other important pieces of paperwork. 

“Mr. Tarry,” said Michael. “Would you please step outside?”

***

The valet walked out the door that led to the hall and closed it behind him. And that left just Aziraphale and Michael in a room with three pistols. Aziraphale was tied to a swivel chair, and his cousin was standing over him. Beside them both was a great big table with a pile of incriminating paperwork on it, including a ledger that listed out the names of every man in service in England who had ever sucked a lord’s prick. Beyond the table was a stack of empty drawers and then a fireplace with a blazing hot fire. 

Aziraphale wriggled in his chair. He tried to imagine whether he could throw himself at the table and get it to tilt and tip the ledger and all the paperwork so that it would all slip down the incline and be propelled into the fireplace. But it was useless. He didn’t have enough freedom of movement to do anything other than fall over in the general direction of the table. And, even if, by some miracle, he somehow managed to get his shoulder under the table to lift it so that it fell over in exactly the right way, the best he could do would be to just tip the ledger into the pile of empty drawers on the far side of the table. 

“So,” said Michael, "Male prostitutes in great houses all over the country." He sniffed. "And the dates go back too far for them to all be your own transactions." He gave Aziraphale a very cold smile. “I thought I understood your agreement with Mr. Crowley, but now I’m confused. I’m not sure I grasp exactly how the nationwide list of prostitutes fits into the picture. We two need to talk about this.”

Michael picked up the shears from the desk and tucked them up against Aziraphale’s cheek, under the clothesline, and he cut. Aziraphale could see the tip of the blade out of the corner of his eye. He closed his eyes and held very still. He felt the tug of the blade against the clothesline and then the clothesline loosened and fell from his face. He expelled the damp cloth from his mouth with his tongue and looked up at Michael, who was pushing the point of the scissors right at the junction of his jaw and his ear. Pain blossomed through his jaw and he twisted away as far as he could. Michael bent over him, hissing in his ear. 

"Did you exchange my son's inheritance for that disgusting book?", said Michael. “Are you conspiring with a network of sodomite prostitutes that blackmails wealthy men?”

“No,” said Aziraphale. He was still desperately trying to think of a way to get the ledger book back out of Michael’s hands. But the fact was that he was tied to a chair. All he could do was throw himself in one direction or another. Perhaps, if he hit it just right, he could knock the table over and make the ledger book fall onto the floor. Or maybe he could knock Michael over and make him drop the scissors. Then he could, maybe, roll over to the scissors and . . . operate them with his mouth? No.

The orange glow of the firelight in the room suddenly brightened. It seemed like an almost Hellish portent. There was nothing Aziraphale could do to save the poor men listed in the ledger. And Michael was leaning over him and yelling the most horrible question of all:

“A prostitute named Anthony is said to have worked at Empyrean Hall in 1808,” said Michael. “Was that prostitute Anthony Crowley?”

“NO!”, cried Aziraphale. Perhaps it was because he was confused by the vehemence of Aziraphale’s denial, but for some reason, Michael stepped back and lowered the scissors. And Aziraphale knew there were no words that could reach Michael, so he just started screaming incoherently. He raged at the unfairness of Crowley being maligned when he hadn’t always been a willing participant in the crimes he was accused of. He raged at the knowledge that all the other men in the book, many of whom had already been ill-used, were going to have their names known, were going to be sacked and publicly shamed, and maybe even be transported or hung. He howled and twisted his upper body from side to side, making the chair dance and clatter as if his pure anger could bring justice to Crowley and every other abused servant in England. 

And then he heard a strange little ‘whoosh’ sound, like a hiss. A moment later, he heard the click of a door opening. A high pitched scream. Then a metallic clattering sound. 

He opened his eyes and saw that Michael had dropped the scissors and was glowing orange. Also, as he looked around, he realized that the door between the drawing room and the library was open and Mrs. Potts was standing in it and staring open-mouthed in the general direction of the fireplace. 

“FIRE!”, she screamed and Aziraphale realized that the pile of empty drawers near the fireplace had sprouted a plume of orange flames as wide as a man’s head and twice as tall.

Potts tottered forward and picked up the bucket of sand next to the tinder box and hurled it at the fire, which sputtered, and then quickly grew back to its original size. 

The next forty-five seconds were the longest of Aziraphale’s life.

The other library door, the one that led to the hall, flew open and Mr. Tarry burst in. 

“FIRE!”, he shouted. “We have to untie Mr. Fell!”

“Get the valuables!”, shouted Michael. “In my room!” And the valet ran off to go save some cufflinks while Aziraphale danced his chair away from the flames as best he could. 

“Untie me!”, shouted Aziraphale. “The scissors!”

“You can burn!”, said Michael. “Fucking sodomite dog!” And he took two steps toward the table, no doubt intending to grab all the valuable evidence that was on top of it. But the table was near to a growing fire. And before he could get any closer, he was shoved aside by a very angry housekeeper. 

“Run, Mr. Sandalphon!”, said Marjorie Potts. Michael looked up at the crackling column of flame, now six feet high. His face melted into pure terror, and he fled. 

The sixty-year-old housekeeper bent down at Aziraphale’s feet and picked up the scissors. Aziraphale looked up and saw that the column of flame was wider than it had been a moment before. The armchair next to the fireplace was starting to smoulder, and little fingers of flame were erupting among the books on the shelf behind the pillar of fire. 

“Save yourself, Mrs. Potts!”, shouted Aziraphale. “You must leave me!” 

But Mrs. Potts ignored him. Either that or she couldn’t hear him over the loud crackling of the flames. She said nothing, perhaps because the air was now too dry for talking. But a few long seconds later, Aziraphale felt a series of snaps as the ropes on one arm and then the other were released. He pulled his arms up and covered his face to keep the heat away. Potts knelt in front of him and started working on the clothesline binding his legs to the chair. 

Through the crack between his forearms, Aziraphale watched in horror as an entire shelf burst into flame. He could feel how Mrs Potts’ body was shielding his legs from the waves of heat rolling off the fire. He closed his eyes, heard a loud “whoosh”, and opened his eyes in time to see that the flames had raced up the bookshelf and reached the ceiling thirteen feet above. The library was lit up as bright as day and black smoke was starting to crawl along the ceiling. 

Potts was pulling the ropes away from his legs as Aziraphale stood up. He took a step but he was still tangled and he nearly fell over. As he was bent over, frantically trying to free his legs, Aziraphale realized that the temperature near the floor was significantly cooler. Potts was grabbing at his arm to try to pull herself back up to standing. The shock of the heat when she stood up nearly made her collapse and she almost pulled Aziraphale over, before they both managed to get their feet under them. 

They ran for the door that led to the hall. Aziraphale was faster, but he grabbed the housekeeper’s hand and pulled her along. They both doubled themselves over instinctively to try to get below the hot air. In the two seconds it took them to cross the room, the sun-bright light of the fire started to dim into sooty darkness.

When they finally got through the doorway, the air was cooler, and they were able to straighten up, but the haze of smoke was getting noticeably thicker from moment to moment. Potts was stumbling, so Aziraphale wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her along the corridor. Just as they gained the stairs, they heard pounding footsteps in the hall behind them and the valet overtook them, pushing them aside as he carried an armload of boxes down the stairs. 

Aziraphale and Mrs. Potts stumbled down the stairs and reached the ground floor. The front door was open, and a strong draft of cool damp air was blowing into the house. They could breathe and talk again. 

“Where is everyone?”, said Aziraphale. “We have to warn everyone.”

“Everyone in the house is either in the basement or in the mews,” said Potts. She started to cough, but, with his help, she managed to stumble down the stairs to the servants’ quarters in the basement. 

“FIRE!” screamed Aziraphale as they descended. “FIRE!”

Isaac, the young footman, met them at the bottom of the stairs. 

“What should I save?” he asked. 

“Nothing!”, said Aziraphale. “Get the people out. Who is home today?”

“Jane is in the laundry,” said Potts, between fits of coughing, “Daisy. . . kitchen. And . . . John and Mr. Samson . . . likely stables.”

“There’s a hireling coachman too,” said Aziraphale. “He should be in the stables.”

“Where are Mr. Sandalphon and Mr. Tarry?”, said Issac.

Potts gritted her teeth, and managed a whole sentence: “Those two can do as they will, and I don’t care,” she said. “They caused the fire and left Mr. Fell for dead.” Then she started coughing again. Aziraphale led her to the servants’ stairs that led directly up to the street in front of the townhouse. 

“I’ll warn the others,” said Aziraphale, as the housekeeper climbed to safety. “Mrs. Potts, please remain on the street in front. Do not return and do not allow anyone to risk their life for any material object. Isaac, follow me to the back.”

“Sir!”, replied Isaac. Aziraphale and Issac ran through the underground servant rooms that connected the townhouse to the little mews building in back that contained the stable and the laundry. “FIRE!”, they yelled as they ran. “FIRE!”

They found Daisy washing up in the kitchen and brought her along with them as they raced through the underground rooms.

“Where is the laundry?” cried Aziraphale, and Isaac pointed the way before dashing off to warn the inhabitants of the stables. Daisy and Aziraphale ran up the women’s side of the mews building and found Jane standing over a steaming copper kettle and stirring its contents with a paddle. Aziraphale and Daisy helped her to pour water to put out the fires in the laundry room.

“Is there anyone upstairs in the dormitory above?”, asked Aziraphale.

“No,” said Jane. “Will the fire spread down to the basement?”

“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale. “Let’s go!”

They went downstairs to the basement and then up another flight of stairs to the stables. The horses were already outside, and the men were removing the carriages, just in case the fire spread to the mews house. The mews street was still quiet, so Aziraphale deputized Daisy and Jane to raise the alarm among the servants of the other houses. He was about to send Isaac to go ring the bell to call the fire company, when he heard it ringing. So he and Issac started pounding on doors on the mews street and warning the servants of the neighbouring houses. 

Within minutes there was great confusion in the mews street. Servants were pulling valuables out of the buildings and stacking them outside. Azriaphale asked the coachman from Crowley’s stable to hitch up the horses to the hireling carriage before it got hemmed in by all the people and horses. He knew that he needed to make his escape in the chaos, before Michael discovered that he was alive. While he waited for his carriage to be ready, Aziraphale looked up past the mews building and saw that smoke was starting to roll out of the back windows of the upper storeys of the townhouse that had been his London home for the past fifteen years. His own bedroom was going up in flames and he didn’t much care.

Aziraphale was content because everything was going to be just fine. No one in the household had been killed. But, just as importantly, the horrible ledger book had been completely destroyed, and the men whose names were listed within it would experience only their usual summer hazard: lecherous noblemen. Perhaps things would be better than usual for them this year, because their names were no longer in a directory. And finally, and most wonderful of all: Crowley was somewhere in London, safe. All Aziraphale had to do was head back to Crowley’s stable and wait there for word from him. Then he could make an apology for all of his years of foolishness, and place his life in Crowley’s hands. As for what would happen next: whether he would try to claim his estate or abandon it, and where he should live and how he would make his living, Aziraphale simply didn’t know. But he had faith in Crowley, as he always should have done. 

  
  
  
  



	31. Having A Husband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finds Aziraphale and takes him home at last. Aziraphale begins to discover that he is joining the middle class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify: there are two more chapters to go after this one. This work has 33 chapters.
> 
> Note: I made a change to the loose box scene to bring things into the realm of physical possibility, given height differences. 
> 
> My apologies for the after publication change -- I am obsessive about realistic ness.

Crowley was riding to Aziraphale’s rescue on a horse he didn’t even know. It was a chestnut gelding lent to him by a groom in another stable, and the horse was not comfortable with being ridden by a stranger through London, in the rain, over streets he didn’t know. So the horse wasn’t going nearly as fast as Crowley wanted him to. 

“Trot ON”, he cried.

Crowley knew that Aziraphale was in grave danger. The aristocrat’s family knew that he had conspired to give the estate away to an unrelated child, and they were plotting against him. They might do anything at all, even murder him. But Aziraphale didn’t realize the danger he was in. Because, apparently, he hadn’t bothered to open his mail when he got home. 

The streets in the West End were all lit by gas lamps. They made the damp streets seem almost like they were perpetually in daylight. As Crowley rode through the posh neighbourhoods barefoot, hatless, and scruffy cheeked, the few pedestrians who were out stared at him. But, as he drew closer to his destination, Crowley ceased to be the most interesting thing on the street, because people in dressing gowns and slippers were running down the damp pavement with their children and pets in their arms. Crowley was one street away from Aziraphale’s townhouse when a fire brigade carriage nearly ran him down. Two enormous black horses were pulling it. Six men were hanging off the sides of the enormous pump. Behind it came a lurry carrying long ladders and hoses and another six men.

When Crowley arrived at the street where his angel lived, the gas lamps suddenly seemed superfluous: The entire street was lit up with a bright and flickering orange light that gave it a hellish feel. The street was packed with people. Men were moving furniture out of buildings. Women carrying children wrapped in blankets were streaming away from the light. Some other people were running towards the excitement. Two new fire pumps, from different companies, squeezed through the crowd. 

When he finally got close enough to see the source of the flames, Crowley’s heart stopped in his chest. The house that was on fire was his angel’s.

"No horses past this point except for fire crews!" A very angry man was waving a whip in front of Crowley’s borrowed gelding. “Get back! Make way for the fire brigade carriages. Back!” 

Crowley had no choice but to back away. As soon as he could, he slid off his horse, looped his reins over a fence, begged a nearby man to watch the gelding, and ran up the street. His bare feet slapped through the puddles and leapt over the hoses that were already crisscrossing the streets. He ducked past fire company men who were moving furniture and valuables out of neighbouring houses. Orange flames poured out the front of Aziraphale’s townhouse and up to the sky while enormous grey clouds of sooty steam rolled off of the roof. Firefighters were climbing ladders to pour water into the first floor with their hoses. As he raced toward the fire, Crowley ducked around a fire pump where two pairs of firefighters stood opposite each other on top of the machinery and alternated pushing down on the bars. 

Once he was standing in front of the Fell townhouse, Crowley turned toward the street to search the crowd for his true love. The faces he saw were all tinted orange, as were the facades of the buildings on the opposite side of the street. He couldn't see Aziraphale, amidst the crowds of people, but he waved his hands and jumped up and down to get the crowd's attention. Some of the spectators who were standing on the balconies across the street looked down at him, but the street level crowd was all looking up at the flames. His terror overwhelmed him and he lost all caution. "AZIRAPHALE!", he shrieked. "WHERE ARE YOU? AZIRAPHALE! I CAN'T FIND YOU! HAS ANYONE SEEN MR. FELL?" 

Crowley scanned the street in desperation, spinning his whole body from right to left. He spotted someone with white hair and a banyan and slippers who was talking to a fireman. He ran over to the man, but it was just a wealthy old property owner who was negotiating with one of the fire companies. "AZIRAPHALE!", he shouted. But there was no answer from the crowd. 

There was another possibility: his angel was still trapped in the building. 

Crowley ran back to Aziraphale's house. He took a deep breath and ran through the open front door and into the hall. He made it one stride in before he couldn't see anymore. His eyes stung from the smoke and a tiny involuntary flaring of his nostrils brought enough of the noxious stuff into the entryway of his nose that he exhaled by reflex to expel it, and then a moment later he was choking. He threw his arms up over his head, though that did nothing to block the onslaught, and he tried to force himself to go on, to rescue his husband, but there was no amount of willpower that would override his body's desperate need for fresh air, and so he was forced to stumble back the way he came. He was blinded by the grey fog, so he tried to follow the direction of the draft of the air. He crashed into a wall and realized he was lost, so he plastered himself against it and spread his long arms out in both directions along it until his fingers found the door frame, and then he pulled himself through and stumbled back out, coughing and choking. 

A blast of water caught him in the ear and he tumbled against the metal fence that protected the path from the pavement to the front door. The blow gave him vertigo, and when he finally was able to open his eyes and sit up, he looked out into the orange hellscape that was the street, and his poor mind finally allowed itself to formulate coherent thoughts. 'They've burned it on purpose,' he thought. 'With Aziraphale inside.'

Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him up to standing. Crowley fell against the stranger and whispered into his ear. "I think they've killed him," he said. 

"Let's get you to safety," said the stranger.

"You have to listen to me," said Crowley. But then he had an attack of spasmodic coughing that doubled him over. 

"Get him away from the smoke," said a man. Crowley's arms were seized and thrown over the shoulders of two shorter men. Their arms wrapped around his middle and he was dragged away. His feet barely held any of his weight, his toes just dragged along through puddles, and over hoses. He started to get his wind back, and in between coughing fits, he tried to talk. Determined as he was that his husband's killers would not go unpunished, he spun the best lie he could think of:

"The insurance money,” he said. "Killed him for it. . . family had a lot of debts . . . spoke to Fell last week . . . He was going on about how he was going to . . . have to cut everyone's . . . cut the allowances . . . once he took over . . . They’ve killed Mr. Fell . . . hiding the body with the fire . . . its murder . . ."

"There you are," said the stranger, and Crowley was lowered onto a stool that someone had set down next to a building a few doors down from the fire, on the opposite side of the street. 

"No!", said Crowley. "You need to listen! Somebody needs to listen to me!” But the two men had already walked away and everyone around him was transfixed by the great fire. “It’s murder!”, he cried. “Mr. Fell has been murdered by his own family! Won’t anyone listen?” 

"Must be drunk,” said someone. And Crowley looked down at his bare feet. One of them was streaked with blood. He realized that his clothes were half-destroyed and he was unshaved. 

“Try to stay calm, man," said a kinder stranger, and he patted Crowley on the shoulder and walked away. 

Crowley slumped against the building, a widower twice over. "He's dead," said Crowley. "He was alive an hour ago. He came to see me and I wasn't there. He never got my warning. And now he's gone." 

Crowley let his head drop to his chest. He stared at the orange light reflected in the puddles in the street and tried to find the willpower to want to live in a world in which Aziraphale was dead. He knew that if he didn't find his horse and get away quickly then he might not have the opportunity to live in that world. He had just made a big public spectacle of himself, and Michael Sandalphon, who was fresh from murdering his own cousin, was almost certainly somewhere in the crowd.

"Anthony Crowley, you are in danger." The voice in his head sounded a bit funny. "On your feet. Now."

He pulled himself upright and then realized that he was looking down on Mrs. Potts, the housekeeper who worked for the Fell family. 

"He got out safely," she said. 

Crowley froze. The chattering of the crowd and the roaring of the flames and the pattering of the rain made a sort of wall of sound that was making it very hard for him to understand what he had just heard.

"Mr. Fell is safe," said Mrs. Potts. "Now let's get you away from this street." 

Crowley's hand flew to his mouth. His eyes went damp. Some kind of a noise like "murble" came out from behind his hand. "Alive?", he asked. “Are you sure?” She nodded, and he blinked, hard. His whole body started to inflate. "Where?", he said. "Take me to him." 

Crowley sailed behind the old housekeeper, through the crowds of people who were gaping at the fire, people who were placing bets, people who were moving furniture out of their homes just in case the fire spread, and people who were haggling with fire company representatives about the suddenly high price of fire insurance. At one point he looked down at his feet and realized that he'd torn the nail on his big toe. It was bleeding like anything, but he couldn't feel it at all. All he could feel, in his body, was a tremendous springiness, as if he was a boy and not a thirty-seven year old man who had spent most of the last day in gaol and most of week before chasing his husband around the countryside. Because he had a husband. An alive husband. 

"I'm married!", Crowley said to the very patient man who was, miraculously, still watching his borrowed horse. 

The fellow looked from the barefoot and bedraggled man with the facial scars to the neatly dressed little old lady who accompanied him. He looked a bit confused. "Congratulations," he said. And old Mrs. Potts gave him a coin from her purse before she led Crowley and the horse away through the crowd.

***

Aziraphale was standing in the mews street behind his townhouse. He had prepared a speech of utter abject apology and he was just about to escape in his hireling carriage. His plan was to spend the night in Crowley's stables and then, at first light, to ride through the countryside until he found his lost love, rescued him from danger, and delivered his long over-due apology.

Then he looked up and saw a tall red haired man with mud-spattered bare feet, wet rumpled clothes, and no hat. 

A familiar silver grey scar twisted itself up into a great big smile and Aziraphale felt himself positively melting with relief. Crowley's smile grew and he let go of the horse he was leading and held his arms out as if the two of them could dare to hug. Then he brought his hands up to his cheeks like a child being presented with a new puppy and he made a series of noises that sounded like this to Aziraphale: "Ayeah yah ayeeah eeegh manannna YOU!"

Aziraphale’s reason fled completely. There wasn’t a single articulate thought in his mind at all. He froze where he stood. It was only a deeply ingrained habit prevented him from closing the distance and flinging himself at the one he loved best of all. He grasped one of his own hands with the other in front of his belly; then he shook his own hand as if he was shaking Crowley's because it was the only way to relieve his feelings. 

"So," said Crowley. "Uh. Eeeeyaa um. Urg?" And he fluttered his hands around in great big circles in the air in front of his chest. 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. He nodded. "Yes." It didn’t matter what Crowley was asking. The answer was yes. It would always be yes from now on. 

"Right," said Crowley. "We should uh . . .?" He made a one-handed fluttery gesture.

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "Carriage?" 

Crowley nodded. "Mmmmm," he said. 

"Oh my!", cried a voice. "Stop! No, no, no, you terrible beast. Stand still, will you? HELP!"

Aziraphale suddenly remembered the horse that Crowley had been leading. And, indeed, the chestnut gelding had seen something he was interested in and he was crossing the crowded street to get to it, and Mrs. Potts, the housekeeper, who had somehow appeared in the mews street, was hanging onto his bridle and being dragged along. Crowley recaptured the chestnut, and saved the housekeeper. 

"Well," Potts said. She lowered her voice and whispered: "I'd think you two ought to go, and quickly. We'll need to communicate again soon, but, for now, I will extend my apology to you both. I wronged you and underestimated you all those years ago. Congratulations."

"Thank you," said Crowley. And he swiftly tied the horse to the back of the hired carriage. He bent over and said something in the housekeeper's ear and she nodded and answered him, but Aziraphale didn’t hear what they said. The mews street was too loud and chaotic. When Crowley turned around again, his face was all one enormous smile. "Get in, angel," he said. And he opened the door of the carriage.

Everyone else on the street was busy, but two of the servants, Isaac and Daisy, were staring openly at the mud-spattered scarecrow who was telling their master what to do in such familiar terms. 

"Mr. Fell, sir?", said Isaac. "Where are you going?"

"Away," replied Aziraphale. "And you won't be seeing me again." And, without another word, he climbed into the carriage.

Crowley climbed in after him, carrying a saddle and a saddle blanket. He set the saddle down next to Aziraphale, and put the saddle blanket on the bench opposite, then he waved to the incredulous servants, shut the door to the carriage, sat his sopping wet bottom down on the saddle blanket, winked at Aziraphale, and drew the curtains shut. 

They were in darkness. Aziraphale heard the rap on the ceiling when Crowley signaled the driver. The carriage lurched and swayed. And then it lurched again as Aziraphale threw himself into Crowley's lap and started covering his cheeks with kisses. "How long till we reach the stables?" Aziraphale asked. 

"Fifteen minutes," said Crowley.

"Good," replied Aziraphale, and he slid to his knees. 

***

There was a more sombre reason that Aziraphale had meant to be on his knees for Crowley, and he remembered it later, after they had tumbled out of the carriage at the stable yard. But he couldn’t keep his thoughts organized for more than a few seconds before he was swept along by the evening’s business. As soon as his feet hit the floor of the yard, he was surrounded by excited men who wouldn’t leave him or Crowley alone for a moment.

There was a lot to do. Crowley and his fellow grooms needed to clean and return the horse he had borrowed, and then clean the saddle and bridle. Aziraphale found himself sitting on a stool in the corner of the tack room, just soppily watching the aliveness of his lover. How efficient his movements were, how beautifully the muscles of his forearms moved as he circled the cloth to polish the leather. Dozens of men were watching Crowley too. They all expected a story from him. After all, he'd gone to Oxfordshire with a gig and come home with a fine new trotter. And then, as if that weren’t enough, he’d brought them a singed nobleman too. 

"I'll tell the story," Crowley said, "On two conditions." He was smiling so broadly that his cheeks were pushing up under his eyes and making little wrinkles of happiness all over his face. Meanwhile the rest of his body was moving in the liquid way that told of complete relaxation and satisfaction, and Aziraphale knew that that was due to his own skill. He rested his own hand against his face and, beneath the smell of smoke, he detected the earthy musky scent of his husband's prick. It was intoxicating. There was nothing more he wanted in the world than that scent and the memory of why it was seared into the skin of his palm. 

"The first condition," Crowley said, "Is that someone bring me a big bucket of warm soapy water to soak my poor feet."

"I'll do that!", shouted a young man. 

"And the second is that someone else takes care of my horses all day tomorrow. I'm taking a holiday, and, once that bucket arrives, I'll tell you all why I deserve it."

***

It was decided that everyone would go up to the hayloft for the story. When they got there, Aziraphale pointed out that Crowley was soaked to the skin, and so the storytelling was delayed while he stripped and put on a dry nightshirt. Aziraphale had to look away when Crowley pulled off his clothes; he knew the limits of his own self control.

Then Aziraphale realized that his own clothes were suffused with acrid smoke. He took them all off, even his shirt and stockings. Someone took his clothes away to air them out and someone else brought him a bucket of water, a rag, and a very hard ball of soap. He cleaned himself up as best he could, stepping behind a thin wooden partition to achieve some degree of modesty in a hayloft that was filled with three dozen working class strangers. At least he was never chilly: the close heat generated by all those bodies packed into such a small space kept him plenty warm even when he was naked and sluicing off with cold water.

No one was looking his way at all. They only had eyes for their hero. Crowley was taking his time about washing his injured feet. He kept dropping little hints that only half-answered the many questions that the men were directing toward him. It was only when Aziraphale was dried and dressed in a borrowed nightshirt that Crowley finally began to tell his tale. He held up his hands for silence and all the men sat on the floor or on hay bales and buckets and they turned their faces up toward him. 

Crowley sat on the edge of a bed, with his face illuminated by a half-dozen candles that had been placed on two little tables near the bed. He was wearing a long white nightshirt and his feet were soaking in a wooden tub. His eyes were alight; his voice was melodious and dramatic; his enormous arms made grand and exciting gestures to illustrate the events of his amazing story. He was magnificent. Aziraphale sat on a bale of straw in a quiet corner at the edge of the circle of light and just enjoyed watching his husband hold court. The old white-haired stableman kept looking over at Aziraphale and tilting his head back and forth. But all the other men ignored Aziraphale; they were completely enthralled by Crowley. 

The story Crowley told was not the full truth, as Aziraphale knew it. Crowley glossed over the part about why pursuers had decided to target him on the road, and he strongly implied that the reason he’d been thrown in gaol was mistaken identity, and therefore the fact that he was released the same day made perfect sense to the crowd. (Aziraphale himself still didn’t understand how Crowley had managed to get out of gaol, but he was content to wait to find out.) And Crowley never fully explained Aziraphale’s part in the adventure either. Mr. Fell was just a “concerned friend” who ran afoul of some nebulous evildoers. The evildoers burned his house to the ground in retaliation for his attempts to aid Crowley. 

The telling of the story took a half hour, and then the crowd requested that certain details of the great battle on the road be revisited and elaborated upon. Then Tobacco’s praises needed to be sung, and the impound stable cursed for scuffing the handsome new saddle. Bentley’s bravery and her devastating attack on the highwayman’s horse were admired. Her subsequent attack on the groom at the impound stable was debated and ultimately excused. The conclusion was that she had been exhausted from three hard days on the road and then mistreated by the grooms at the impound. After all, if those grooms were at all competent, then surely they’d have been hired by a real stable. Bottles of gin were passed around the room, and the merry conversation went on and on. It was well past one AM when Mr. Wright finally ordered those who didn’t live in the hayloft to go home, and everyone else to go to bed. 

Crowley’s bed was on the side of the loft; he had walls on two sides that created a semi-private stall. His bed was narrow, but no one in the hayloft was surprised when he invited Aziraphale to share it. Aziraphale had to remind himself that the drivers and grooms weren't of the social class where they expected everyone to get a bed to himself. They only seemed surprised that the nob was willing to share. They kept asking Crowley whether he wanted to join them in the straw, and they didn't know quite what to make of the fact that Aziraphale never let Crowley out of his sight. Eventually, they seemed to accept it all as part of the magic that was associated with a man who had fought off highway bandits with his boot, escaped from gaol and rescued a nobleman from a fire. 

"I love you," Aziraphale whispered, when they were pressed up against each other in bed. He said it directly into Crowley's ear, so that the other men couldn't overhear. “I need to tell you--”

But Crowley wouldn’t hear his confession. "After they all fall asleep," said Crowley. "We'll sneak down into Bentley's loose box and get ourselves a bit of nifty."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. Because that was the only answer anymore. 

Aziraphale started coughing a bit when they laid down, so they both sat up in bed and Crowley asked him all about his trip home and his encounter with Michael and how the fire had started. Aziraphale skipped over the bit about going to his club because he couldn’t broach such a fraught topic when they had no true privacy, but, in whispered words, he told Crowley about how Michael had tied him to a chair and then abandoned him to die in a fire. By the time he was done with his abridged story, the men in the hayloft had fallen asleep. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale was ready for sleep, so they snuck down to the stables where their private activities were less likely to be overheard. 

***

Enjoying a deed of pleasure in the corner of a loose box turned out to be more difficult than Aziraphale had anticipated. Not because of the physical accommodations (There was a deep bed of clean straw in the corner that Crowley chose), but because Bentley was very curious about what they were up to. Aziraphale was leaning against the corner with his head thrown back and Crowley kneeling at his feet, and he was getting very, very, close, when there was suddenly something very large and warm snuffling up against his chest. Crowley sent Bentley away and went back to his good work, and then, just as release seemed imminent, there she was again, leaning against them both, nuzzling the top of Crowley's head and, therefore, touching Aziraphale's belly. It was not conducive. And Aziraphale found that he was, after all, willing to place some limits where Crowley's desires were concerned.

"Just ignore her," said Crowley. 

"No," said Aziraphale. "I'm not involving an animal in our act of love."

"She's not an animal," said Crowley. "She's Bentley. And she doesn't know what it's all about, anyway." But Aziraphale dropped his nightshirt down and tried to push the horse away as Crowley patted her and tried to excuse her behavior. "She had a bad time in the impound stables. Just needs some affection to help her feel secure."

But Aziraphale was adamant that he couldn't possibly climax while a horse was touching him in any way, so they compromised by having Aziraphale face the corner while Crowley shielded him from equine affection with his body. Crowley finished Aziraphale off by hand and then recieved a very quick oral favour from him. It wasn't entirely satisfactory for either of them, but it took the edge off enough that they could go back up to the loft and sleep. 

"Tomorrow," whispered Crowley, "I'll take you to the Queen Mother's house. We'll rent a room there and get a proper bed and a door with a lock."

"My prick smells like a horse," replied Aziraphale. "And it's your fault."

"I love you, too," said Crowley. 

***

Aziraphale woke up to the sound of someone rapping on the wall. He opened his eyes and sensed brightness. He shifted his head a bit and realized that his face was buried in the side of Crowley's nightshirt. He tried to move a bit more and realized that his right arm and, in fact, the entire right side of his body, was temporarily paralyzed from being slept upon. And between that fact, and the depth of the divot in the middle of the bed, he couldn't find a way to move at all, so he had to just lie still and listen as Crowley talked to whoever was standing in their sleeping stall. 

"Thank you," Crowley was saying.

"You're welcome,” said the other voice. “I hated to wake you, but I thought it might be important.”

Aziraphale twisted his head back, and saw that it was Crowley's white-haired boss, Mr. Wright. The old man was standing at the side of their bed holding out a letter to Crowely. Aziraphale looked down at the bed and realized that the thin blanket covering them didn't at all disguise the fact that his own left leg was thrown completely over Crowley's body. They were plastered together like lovers, it was impossible to hide it, and Crowley was just talking to his boss as if their little tableau of male domestic love was perfectly natural. 

“Did we miss breakfast?”, said Crowley.

"The missus saved you something,” said Wright. “I'll send Joey up with it in ten minutes," said Wright. Then his footsteps receded.

It was the work of several minutes for Crowley to free Aziraphale from his semi-paralyzed predicament, and to get him sitting on the side of the bed. Even when he was finally sitting, Aziraphale’s right arm and right leg were prickling so terribly that he could barely focus to read the letter that Crowley held under his eyes. 

"What’s it say, angel?", said Crowley. “I don’t have it in me to read this morning.”

“It’s from Mrs. Potts,” replied Aziraphale. “First line says ‘You are safe for now.’ “

“Right,” said Crowley. “The rest will keep for a few minutes.” He took the letter away and stood up and yawned, stretching two enormously long arms up to touch the ceiling. 

"What are you going to say to him?", said Aziraphale. 

"Eh?"

"Mr. Wright," hissed Aziraphale. "He _saw_ us."

Crowley seemed unconcerned. "Didn't see anything," he said. "You want to go first?" He nudged a ceramic pot out from under the bed with his foot. When Aziraphale looked up at him in shock, Crowley misunderstood him and smiled with pride. "Rank has its privileges,” he said. “No running down to the smelly cesspool for us."

A few minutes later, when they were again sitting together on the side of the narrow bed, Crowley threw an arm around Aziraphale's shoulder and pressed a kiss to his cheek and Aziraphale stiffened. "Wot?", said Crowley. Aziraphale rolled his eyes to indicate the open end of their sleeping stall. "We'll hear Joey coming," said Crowley, and he stroked Aziraphale's cheek and tried to kiss his mouth. 

The sound of childish footsteps caused Crowley to break off his affections, and a boy came into their chamber, bearing two bowls of a kind of porridge and two large sausages. The sausages were reasonably good but the porridge was very plain, being flavoured only with salt and the barest hint of sugar. 

"Good, yeah?", said Crowley, as he tucked in. "Mrs. Wright puts twelve eggs into the pot, so it's more filling." Aziraphale recalled that there were at least twenty men and boys working in the stables. Twelve eggs didn't seem like very much for such a large crowd. But hunger made a fine spice, and Aziraphale finished the dreadful porridge much more quickly than he expected to. 

"What now?", said Aziraphale. He made a gesture that took in the entirety of their tiny stall, the little pile of Aziraphale's jewelry on the bedside table, and the single set of finely crafted, thin soled shoes that was the only useful footwear they had between the both of them. 

"Prolly should read our letter from Mrs. Potts," said Crowley. He brought it over to Aziraphale and leaned over his shoulder to look on as Aziraphale read. 

Aziraphale gasped aloud as his eyes skimmed the page, and Crowley hissed in frustration. "If you’re going to be so distracting, then just read aloud and make it easy on me,” he said. 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Sorry. Um. The . . . the servants: they told Michael that I was dead."

"Wot? All of them said that?"

"Hmmmm . . ." said Aziraphale, and he read ahead silently again as Crowley sputtered in frustration beside him. "Oh, how terrible!"

"Damn it, angel," said Crowley.

"Sorry," Aziraphale replied. "Mr. Tarry is dead. He was my valet. He went back in to fetch some things . . . he made three trips back in. Michael wanted the silver and some things from the mantel in the parlour on the ground floor and, on the third trip, he just didn't come back."

"But Michael's alive?", said Crowley.

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Unfortunately." And then he read the entire letter aloud from start to finish while Crowley paced the little stall in his nightshirt. "What are we going to do?", Aziraphale said, as he finished.

Crowley frowned. "I think we can take a day or two to think about it. Talk to the Queen Mother and Duke Bottomly, see what they suggest. Dead is good. For you." 

“What?”

"Always can come back from the dead if we need you to,” said Crowley. “But this way they aren't looking for you." He wrinkled his nose. "Probably won't bother about looking for me anymore either. I'm not worth it anymore. Now that you’re dead and Michael thinks he has got what he wants."

"What about Adam?"

Crowley wrinkled his lip and shook his head. "Not worth worrying about. You lied to the Youngs so it's not their fault. And Adam will tell anyone who asks that you aren't his father. So they'll leave him alone."

Aziraphale nodded. He had thought as much, but it was reassuring that Crowley agreed with him. 

A set of rapid footfalls announced the arrival of stable boy Joey, who collected their breakfast bowls and told Crowley that Mr. Wright wanted to speak to him at his earliest convenience. So Crowley got dressed and fetched Aziraphale’s smoke-suffused garments from the yard, and then he left the hayloft to go talk to his boss.

Aziraphale dressed himself in his spoiled clothes and then sat on the bed and stared off into space. He was smelling the acrid fumes and they were tickling his throat and making him feel sick and disoriented. And, really, sitting in a tiny room by himself wasn’t doing anything for his mental fortitude. It was impossible to know how long Crowley had been gone. His own watch had been among the possessions that Mr. Tarry had divested him of, and Crowley’s watch had stopped. Aziraphale heard some distant church bells chiming the noon hour and he came back to himself a bit and resolved to wind and reset Crowley’s watch. Despite the tricks his eyes were playing on him, he managed to locate the watch on the bedside table, but then his fingers wouldn't twist the stem. They were shaking, and they seemed entirely too fat and clumsy to do the job. So he gave up on the watch only to discover that, when he sat down on the bed again, his legs bounced all on their own. Then he realized that he couldn't inhale fully, because whenever he drew breath, he had stabbing pains in his chest. 

Something was very wrong. Aziraphale slipped off the bed and onto his knees on the floor. Clutching his chest with one hand, he crawled past straw and hay bales to the open hole in the floor that led to the ladder. "Help,” he cried, and his voice was terribly weak. "Somebody help." And then he lost consciousness. 

When he came to, he was being rocked in Crowley's arms, and they were both lying in the straw. Aziraphale started to sob and he simply couldn't stop. He heard his own voice making nonsense syllables and he tried to get control of what he was saying, but the only intelligible word he could say was "fire".

"Hush," said Crowley. "You're safe now."

"Please don't leave me," said Aziraphale. 

"Never," said Crowley. 

And then Aziraphale remembered that he had been planning to throw himself at Crowley's feet and make himself Crowley's servant as repayment for his own crime of socializing with Crowley’s assailants as well as for all of the harm that the Fell estate had done to him, from allowing him to be humiliated and ravished by guests to ruining his face, to reducing his wages after his injury. But Aziraphale couldn’t stop crying. And the very thought that he was the one crying when Crowley had been wronged so badly made him cry all the harder. 

"I'm sorry," said Aziraphale. "You were right. About absolutely everything. I've wronged you. I need to . . . "

"Shhhhhh," said Crowley. And he kissed the top of his head and wrapped him up in four long limbs. 

***

The next thing he knew, Aziraphale was hearing the sounds of mens' footfalls and horses’ footfalls and the clanks and thumps of the stable. 

"Up you get," said Crowley. "We need to get going. Got to take you to the tavern." Aziraphale opened his eyes and realized that he was curled up in the straw on the floor in the hayloft, and Crowley was sitting by his side. There was a man, standing not ten feet away from them, who was pitching hay down to the mangers through a wide slit in the floor. 

Aziraphale pulled himself away from Crowley as fast as he could. 'I'm so sorry', he mouthed. 

"For what?", said Crowley.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and gestured at the man who had undoubtedly seen them both nestled so close together. Crowley looked confused, and, since Aziraphale refused to elaborate, he led them both back to his little stall bedroom where they had a whispered conference.

"After all I've done to you," said Aziraphale. “I don’t want to make you lose your job on my account."

"What are you on about?", said Crowley.

"That man saw us together," said Aziraphale. 

"Yeah?", said Crowley. 

"I mean," said Aziraphale, "He might think we're a couple."

Crowley looked alarmed. "We are, aren’t we?", he said. "I thought all that was behind us."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I'm yours. But _they_ might figure it out."

Crowley's face made an 'O' shape. Then he gave Aziraphale a thump on the leg. "I think, if they were going to figure it out, they would have figured it out last night, angel. Anyone who was paying attention to your face, anyway. Mr. Wright knows. That's what he wanted to talk to me about. That's why we can't stay here tonight."

"Oh no!"

" 'S fine. It's just not proper. The men can't be sharing a sleeping room with a fairy."

Aziraphale started to panic. "Where will we live?", he said. "How will you find employment with no references? I've ruined everything! I should have been more careful."

"I still have a job," said Crowley. "It's just that you can't sleep here."

"Just me?"

"Well, yes," said Crowley. 

"I don't understand."

Crowley rubbed at his own face. But he was smiling a bit. "You see, angel, you are obviously 'that way', and so you can't stay with the men. Just as if you were a woman. Too distracting. Not proper."

"But what about you?"

"I'm me," said Crowley. "Same as always."

"But Mr. Wright knows?", said Aziraphale. "I mean . . . us?"

Crowley nodded. 

"But doesn't that make us both . . .?"

"Nope," said Crowley. "Just you."

"That doesn't make any sense whatsoever."

Crowley shrugged. 

"Isn't there a danger that someone is going to inform the constable about us? We're going to end up hanged!"

"Not everyone is as self-righteous as your family members," said Crowley. "Almost every person in London eventually does something that could get them hanged. Nobody poor can possibly afford to live within the bounds of the law. We all rely on the fact that the law doesn't have time to hang all of us. There's over a million and a half people in London. If they hanged us all, there'd be nobody to unload the ships."

"What?"

"I've been telling you for years," said Crowley. "The law is just there to give you nobs a ready excuse to arrest anyone who doesn't send enough money your way. Back in the Year Without A Summer, the local magistrate threatened a woman with hanging for the crime of stealing a loaf of bread."

“That’s dreadful!”

"Listen," said Crowley. "I've worked at this stable for thirteen years; I practically run the place. And Mr. Wright has lived in London for his whole life. He knows how the world works. He doesn't care if my wife is a man." Crowley paused and picked at the blanket with his fingers. "Errrgh," he said. "Actually, he doesn't really consider you a proper man. You're a fairy. 'S different to him. It’s how he thinks. And as for the other blokes in the stable: they’ll follow his lead. If he isn’t worried about you, they won’t be.”

“Are you sure?”, said Aziraphale. “I’ve been so indiscreet.” 

Crowley smiled. “The fact that you're a ridiculous dandy doesn't mean anything at all to the men. Because you're a nob. Practically anything you do is excused. They see you as sort of an exotic creature that I've captured like a butterfly in a net. They can't understand it, so they don't have any rules about what they expect from you. So as long as we don't force them to think about what we get up to, they never will."

Aziraphale shook his head in confusion.

"It's simple, angel," said Crowley. And he leaned over and whispered into Aziraphale's ear. "Sodomites are very bad people, and we," he drew a finger through the air to point back and forth at the two of them: "Are obviously good people. Ergo: not sodomites." He pulled his lips away from Aziraphale's ear and put his hands on Aziraphale's upper arms and waited for him to meet his eyes. "All right?"

Aziraphale nodded. He was determined to trust Crowley. 

"Now," said Crowley. "You need a new coat and some everyday wear and we both need boots."

"Oh no," said Aziraphale, for the dozenth time in an hour. "You're going to be barefoot for at least a week!"

"Naw," said Crowley. "I'll get a rush order done. I know a cobbler who likes me very well."

"Ah," said Aziraphale.

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Her name is Lady Jezebel."

  
  
  



	32. Gentleman in the Molly House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale meets the Queen Mother. Crowley learns about the ledger book. Aziraphale learns how the non-gentry live. Some small amount of justice is served.

Aziraphale was feeling very turned around. He was walking down a somewhat low-class London street in his smoke-ruined shirt and waistcoat, trailing after a hatless man who was striding along on rag-wrapped feet as if he owned the street. Aziraphale himself had no tailcoat, no hat, and no cane. His purse, his rings, and his cufflinks were hidden in the inside pocket of Crowley’s battered tailcoat because it wasn’t safe for them to be visible in this neighbourhood.

Ten minutes earlier, Crowley had left his single boot at a cobbler’s establishment after an intense and nearly incomprehensible conversation with a smooth-faced cobbler who couldn’t stop staring at Aziraphale. Some of the words Crowley used had seemed like English, but none of what he said had made any sense. Obviously it was a sort of code, and the other man had understood perfectly. 

Presently, Aziraphale was practically tucking himself between the tails of Crowley's coat to hide from the crowds of working class people who (he was sure) were staring at them. 

"Nearly there, angel," said Crowley. And he led them down an alley and into an enormous yard filled with caged roosters, a pig, drying laundry, and loud children. They reached the back door of a three storey building, and Crowley simply let himself into the tiny kitchen where a woman and two nearly grown girls were at work. 

"Hello Winnie," said Crowley, "I'd like to introduce my husband, Aziraphale Fell. Angel, this is Winnie Cooper, the Queen Mother's daughter, and her daughters Tabitha and Grace.”

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Fell," said Mrs. Cooper. She stilled her rolling pin, bobbed a curtsy, and bent to her work again. "Go on up to the first floor parlour,” she said. “Father and Paul are in a meeting in the downstairs one, but we’ll let them know you've arrived."

Aziraphale and Crowley climbed up a set of very narrow stairs, no two of which had the same angle or shape, and Aziraphale had to concentrate just to not fall. They walked through a narrow hall and then into a small dining room with a low ceiling (only about nine feet) and a crude table and benches for twenty or thirty people. And then into another room, which had a powerfully complex odor of sweat and sex and some other things that Aziraphale wasn't sure he wanted to identify. It was another smallish room containing about twenty pieces of stained and mismatched furniture, mostly sofas and chaises and a few armchairs. The floor was sticky. 

Crowley threw out his arms and spun around. "This is it!", he said. "The parlour of the Queen Mother's court. I can't believe you're here at last!" 

Aziraphale blinked, hard. Then he remembered that he'd resolved to trust his husband. Husband. That was the word Crowley had used to introduce him. Aziraphale swallowed to see if he could get the lump out of his throat. He was married. Again? Still? Newly married? He wasn’t sure. He was very disoriented. He was in a completely new world, a world with sticky floors and strange odors. And a husband who loved him unconditionally and who was so deliriously happy that he was spinning in circles on his rag-wrapped feet. 

"We did it!", said Crowley. "We cheated death and here we are, together." He pulled Aziraphale into his arms and kissed him soundly. The smells of the room and of Aziraphale’s own ruined clothes weren't nearly so strong when they were kissing, and Aziraphale soon found himself sucking on the pulse point under his husband's ear, just because the taste of it was soothing. He was alive and safe. The rest would work itself out because Crowley was magical. 

"What's this?" It was a calm, educated voice that, for an instant, made Aziraphale forget that he’d left his old life behind. 

Aziraphale unwrapped himself from his husband's arms and saw that it was Mr. Paul Waxdall, the butler who had helped him and Crowley to find a private room all those years ago. Mr. Waxdall was much the same, just a bit older. He was still neat as a pin, bald, and wearing neat conservative sideburns. Today he was wearing cream-coloured linen breeches and a dark blue wool tailcoat. His waistcoat showed a hint of style; it was jacquard, though it was a muted green color.

There was another man too, and Aziraphale guessed who he was at once because he was unusually tall (he was slightly taller than Crowley). He was also clean-shaven, which was to be expected, given the type of entertainer he was. Though he was obviously over sixty years old, the man was bold and stylish in his green striped trousers, bright green tailcoat and floral patterned cravat. The old dandy was blinking rapidly as he took in Crowley’s rag-wrapped feet and Aziraphale’s rumpled silk waistcoat. A slight flaring of his nostrils let Aziraphale know that he smelled the smoke from the house fire. 

Crowley introduced the old dandy as Queen Mother Richard Chancy. It was a very strange introduction, as Crowley was trying to introduce Aziraphale as if Chancy were higher ranked, and Chancy was wide-eyed and bowing low and obviously flustered. Aziraphale was flustered too, because he had no tailcoat and he smelled of smoke. But Mr. Waxdall served the tea with a butler’s practiced serenity and Crowley carried the conversation, describing his escape from Michael's hired highwaymen. Both Aziraphale and the old dandy queen sat very still and quiet, Chancy in his arm chair and Aziraphale pressed up against Crowley on a much-abused chaise longue. 

Then Chancy seemed to recover from his shock and he spoke at last. "I'm certain there's a lot more tale to tell," he said. "But I'd like to ask, if I may, whether Mr. Fell is actually still an earl."

As Aziraphale struggled to collect his thoughts, Crowley answered the question. "Haven't worked that out yet,” he said. " 'S complicated." 

"Ah," said Chancy. 

"Um. Yes," said Aziraphale. "There are complexities. My uncle, the earl, is near death, and his passing could come at any time. Also, my cousin, who is next in line after me, tried to kill me yesterday and he thinks he's succeeded."

"Your cousin tried to burn you to death?", said Chancy. When Aziraphale nodded, Chancy covered his mouth with his hand. He shook his head very slowly. Chancy’s mate reached over and took his free hand. They all sat quietly until Waxdall relieved the silence.

"But you escaped, obviously," said Waxdall. He spoke in a measured way that invited calm reflection. "You don't look injured at all. That's remarkable, Mr. Fell. You must have been very resourceful." 

"No,” said Aziraphale. "I really wasn’t. The housekeeper ran into the room after the fire was underway and she hazarded her life to save mine." 

Aziraphale, when he was speaking, met the butler’s eyes and was the picture of polite calm. It was what he had learned to do over the last fifteen years, and he was very good at it. He was a gentleman. But as he spoke the calm words, he had to suppress a shudder as his body remembered the heat and the terror. And, also, in the silent places in his heart, he felt the weight of owing his life to an old woman and having no resources with which to repay her. He knew that lives couldn’t be measured in money, but the fact that he could never reward her bravery with an early retirement in the country made him feel useless and unworthy. He had no power over the world anymore. Everything was gone except for two things: his dignity, and his love for his husband. So, as he sat next to Crowley and did his best to fit into his new life, he prayed that he could become the sort of person that was worth risking someone else’s life to save.

Waxdall spoke. "I'd say", he said, "That you must have done something to earn that level of loyalty from a servant." 

Aziraphale said “You’re very kind,” in a perfectly gracious way. But when Waxdall looked away, he glanced down at his shoes. No one had cleaned them last night and they were still filthy. He hadn't polished his own shoes since he was seventeen, and he was going to have to learn again. 

Crowley nudged him. "If we're going to be strategic here, we need to know what Michael knows and how he knows it. So we were followed, right? In Tadfield?"

Aziraphale nodded and found his dignity again. "My valet was a spy,” he said. “He'd been reporting to Michael for months, and he listened at the door when we were having that loud argument in the inn about which of us had the better claim to be Adam's father." 

Crowley made a quiet little noise under his breath that might have been a curse. "Does Michael have anything else?", he asked.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "Yes," he said. “He’s seen proof that you and I are both lovers of men.” 

"Wot?", said Crowley. “Did someone see us in the act?”

"I think that's something we need to discuss privately," said Aziraphale. 

Crowley frowned a little. "Angel," he said. "There's nothing you can't say in front of my friends. They already know everything about us and they've seen everything there is to see of me." He gestured at the room they were in and raised an eyebrow. "And I mean everything."

Aziraphale felt his own body crumpling under the weight of his guilt. And then Crowley made it all worse by wrapping an arm around him. 

" 'S'all right angel," he said. 

***

Aziraphale had said it was important, and so Crowley had got them a private room as fast as he could. The Queen Mother had insisted upon taking all their clothes to launder, and also upon bringing them lots of hot water and a sitting bath. So now they were both reasonably clean and wearing borrowed nightshirts in a room with an actual double bed, and, instead of making love to his husband, Crowley was staring at a grey-faced and unhappy spouse and urging him to speak.

"Go on!", Crowley said. "Don't leave me on tenterhooks. It can't be that awful. The worst is behind us."

"There was a book," said Aziraphale. He actually closed his eyes while he was talking. His hands were fists. "I found it in my club and I stole it to bring it to you." He opened his eyes and looked directly at Crowley. "It had your name in it."

"Me?", said Crowley. He was confused. "I don't know anyone in your club. I've had the address, but I've never been there, angel. I promise." He realized that he was talking very fast. He'd have to, if he was going to manage to force himself to make his confession of what he'd done to Aziraphale's club. He was dreading saying it. Class warfare was all well and good in theory, but Aziraphale was going to be furious when he found out that all of his friends had been dragged off to gaol. 

"It must have been a man with the same name," said Crowley. "Coincidence or something. But there is something I need to--"

"It was your name," said Aziraphale. He was relentless. "Your name and Empyrean Hall and your dates of service there." Aziraphale took a deep breath. "I was told it was a complete list of male servants in all the great houses in the countryside who were 'that way'."

"Wot?", said Crowley. He threw himself to his feet. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Then he opened them and continued. His voice was very clipped and very clear. "Yes," he said. "The notion was that gentlemen could plan their summer and autumn travels with an eye to always having a willing--" He hissed through gritted teeth, then he continued: "They made notes for each other on the specifics of every encounter. What was done, whether money changed hands, whether they used force to overpower--"

A great sinkhole seemed to open in the floor underneath Crowley as his husband was talking. It was right under his feet, and he was falling into it, but he never seemed to leave where he was standing. It was as if the moment of the terrifying realization of the sinkhole’s existence just kept happening continuously, and he was forever at the edge of the sinkhole as the earth fell away beneath him, always a moment away from falling into darkness, but never actually reaching the point where he was underground. 

Crowley looked down at his hands and realized that they were shaking. Then he realized he was trembling from head to toe. Everything he had known about his own history was a lie. All of those seemingly spontaneous encounters he'd thought he had with all those different noblemen hadn’t been spontaneous at all. They’d all known to ask for him specifically. And every single act of kind with a nobleman at Empyrean hall, all of his experiences, from the most lovely afternoons of shared kisses and mutual pleasures in a soft bed to that terrible night when he’d been bent over the side of an armchair and forced to continue even as his insides were twisting themselves up to try to reject the intrusion, all of those encounters, good and bad, had been recorded in a book. The noblemen had talked about him among themselves, as if he was an animal. And Aziraphale had read the filthy words they had written about him. The humiliation was unbearable.

Aziraphale read his mind, as usual, and tried to ease it. "I didn't read the entry for Empyrean Hall," he said. "When I realized what the book was, I stole it and tried to bring it to you right away." 

"Then how are you so sure I was in it?", said Crowley. He heard his own voice and realized that he was snarling. 

Aziraphale's voice was very quiet. "Lucien Morningstar and Tristan Walker told me that you were in the book," he said. "They told me what they did to you." When Crowley looked down at his husband, he realized that Aziraphale had entirely sucked his lower lip into his mouth and that his cheeks were glistening with sheets of tears. "I'm so sorry," Aziraphale whispered. "I wish I had never known those men. I'll do whatever you want me to do to get your revenge. I'll challenge them to a duel or testify against them before a magistrate or . . . I don't even know what to do." 

"It's not for you to do," said Crowley. And then he was screaming terrible things at the one person he loved best: "It's not about YOU! Why would you ruin our first real night together by dredging up these horrible things! We could have been happy tonight. Why won't you ever let us be happy?!" 

Aziraphale's voice was very small, but the words burst out of his mouth as tiny precise little explosions of sound. "Because," he said. "Michael read the book, and you need to understand what he knows about us." 

Crowley wailed and kicked the corner of the bed that Aziraphale was sitting on. Then he fell to his knees and started pounding the mattress with his fists as screams of rage rose from his mouth and filled his ears. The door burst open, and the Queen Mother and her tall son Dick were suddenly standing on either side of him. 

"Up you get," said the Queen Mother as her son wrapped his hands around Crowley's arms and hauled him up to his feet. The two of them marched Crowley to the parlour and the Queen Mother’s son pushed him down onto a sofa while she stood over him with her eyes flashing imperiously. "You will not disturb the peace of my household," she said. "My grandchildren live here. And their mothers are trying to explain to them what they just heard."

Crowley quailed and curled in on himself and covered his face. "I'm sorry, ma’am," he said. "I'm sorry. Tell the children I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare them. You offered me hospitality and I-- I'm sorry."

And then, a moment later, the Queen Mother was sitting beside him, folding him into her warmth, rocking him back and forth, and Crowley was home in her arms. "What happened, love?”, she said. “What is the matter?"

The Queen Mother’s son left the room, and, a minute later, the duke and Aziraphale entered the parlour and sat down. Then Aziraphale started the horrible story about the book all over again so that the Queen Mother and Duke Bottomly could hear it. It was easier for Crowley to listen the second time, because he was in the Queen Mother’s arms and the solid presence of her body wrapped around his seemed to protect him from the pain of hearing the terrible words. Crowley shuddered and softly beat his fists against his own forehead as the Queen Mother stroked his back. 

"There were at least forty years of records," Aziraphale said. "And, as far as I know, every great house in all of England, Wales, and Scotland was included."

The duke went completely pale. "Oh God," he said. Then he stood up, turned on his heel, and strode from the room. 

"Paul!", said the Queen Mother, and she unwrapped herself from around Crowley and ran out after him. 

It was the shock of realizing that he wasn't the only one affected by the book that finally allowed Crowley to pull himself together. He rubbed his eyes until he could open them and see clearly. Then he took a few breaths and asked the responsible question, the one that would let him take the necessary steps to preserve the safety of all those men whose names had been written down. 

"Where is the book now?", Crowley asked. "Who has it?"

"It burned in the fire," said Aziraphale.

"Last night?", said Crowley. "This was all last night?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "I went to the club yesterday afternoon, and I found out about the book, and I tried to bring it to you but you were still in gaol, so I went home and there was Michael with the gun. He took it from me and, when he read it, it was perfectly plain what sort of man I was and also what you are."

"Fuck," said Crowley. The room felt too small. His skin felt too small. He needed to pace, and he walked around the parlour in his borrowed nightshirt, chasing his own thoughts in circles, and slowly coming to a horrible realization, while Aziraphale sat silently and watched him.

The Queen Mother returned to the parlour, but she wasn't the Queen Mother at all anymore. She was Richard Chancy. Chancy looked haunted: his floral cravat was askew, his face was still and grey and his hands were shaking. He walked up to Aziraphale but, before he could open his mouth, the angel answered his silent query. 

"It's burned," said Aziraphale. "You can tell Mr. Waxdall that the record is gone."

Richard Chancy looked over at Crowley, who was still pacing furiously. "I'm sorry, dear," he said. "I can't help you. I need to be with Paul right now." 

Aziraphale sat on the end of the chaise, perfectly poised, and watched Crowley pace. He didn’t say a thing, which was the right thing to say. After a while, it started to feel safe to walk a little slower. Then it seemed safe to sit down near Aziraphale. And then Crowley made his confession of the Hell he had unleashed on Aziraphale’s club. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t imagine that you were there.” 

Aziraphale went very still and then gave him a slightly odd smile. “You didn’t need me to avenge you after all,” he said. “Clever man.” 

Crowley hung his head. “I endangered you because I was afraid. I should have given you a day or two to find me before I-- ” 

But Aziraphale didn’t want to talk about it. “Well, as fate would have it, I was no longer at the club when the constables arrived,” he said. “All’s well that ends well.” He stood up. “Tea?” 

Crowley was confused, but he led Aziraphale down to the kitchen. They came back upstairs with tea and bread and butter. As they walked through the hall on the first floor, Crowley verified that Richard Chancy and Paul Waxdall were in their bedroom with the door shut. Aziraphale poured out the tea and the two of them sat at the Queen Mother’s banquet table and had a simple supper and very purposefully jocular conversation. 

“Is this tea smuggled?”, said Aziraphale.

“That’s what makes it taste so good,” said Crowley. “You can taste the criminality.”

“How about this china?”, he asked. “Is it also smuggled?”

“Transported it myself thirteen years ago,” said Crowley. “Took it on the last leg of its journey. Packed all the crates into a carriage and drove it so smoothly I didn’t break a single one. And then I spent the money I earned on a bottle of wine for you.”

“As I recall,” said Aziraphale, “I was angry about the wine. I’m sorry.”

“Are we getting all our apologies out of the way tonight?”, said Crowley. “I have a few more to make.”

“I doubt we’ll have time to get through all of them before bed,” said Aziraphale. “Let’s just call it a day.”

  
  


***

  
  


Aziraphale schooled his face carefully and kept his thoughts to himself as he carried their dishes down to the kitchen. His rainy afternoon at the library took on a very different cast in his memory now that he realized what must have been happening at the club while he waited for his carriage ride. He realized that, because he was now in hiding, he couldn’t contact anyone to find out who had been captured and whether they were all right. And while he was perfectly content for Lucien Morningstar and Tristan Walker to be brought to Newgate for what they did to Crowley, what about the innocent men who had been at the club that day? Though he honestly didn’t know which men were innocent and which were not. Or even if he should consider himself to be innocent. After all, he’d been there in the rooms when the jokes about servants and street prostitutes had been made. And, even if he hadn’t laughed, he’d never done anything other than to offer the mildest of rebukes. At the time, staying chummy had somehow seemed more important than sussing out which of his friends really thought it was all right to force themselves onto lower ranked men. And which ones had actually done it. 

Aziraphale watched his husband closely, as Crowley apologized to the woman in the kitchen for upsetting her children with his shouting. Crowley even offered to finish the washing up for her, but she took one look at his shaking hands and told him that he wasn’t coming near her crockery. Aziraphale agreed; it was abundantly clear that Crowley needed sleep. That was why tonight wasn’t the night to hash through the could-have-dones and should-have-dones. A wealthy man had thrown Crowley in gaol and threatened his life, and, in order to escape, Crowley had sent more than a dozen other wealthy men to gaol. Was it class warfare? Poetic revenge? Or just self-preservation in a desperate moment? 

Aziraphale didn’t know. 

But he did know that the man at his club’s desk would have flickered the gas lights throughout the building the moment constables arrived, and he would have talked to them to delay them and then taken his time finding the correct keys to every single locked door. Chances were very good that no one had been caught in any incriminating act. And everyone could afford lawyers. So as long as none of them were foolish enough to publicly proclaim their love for their own sex, they’d all escape punishment. At worst, some might lose their inheritances and others might leave the country. The rest would have to work hard to be accepted back into polite society, but none of their lives would ever be in danger. That was how it usually went for men of that social class. 

Aziraphale and Crowley went back up to their room and closed the door and lay next to each other on the bed. Crowley seemed to want to trace the contours of Aziraphale's face with his fingertips. Aziraphale didn't dare do the same. Historically, touching Crowley's face was only sometimes acceptable, and tonight wasn't a night to push. Actually, given all that had passed between them in the last hours, Aziraphale was somewhat surprised that Crowley wanted to be with him at all. But the same miracle that had been happening for fifteen years was still happening now, only this time, Aziraphale was wise enough not to take it for granted or push it away. Crowley loved him completely, whether or not he deserved it, and he was just going to have to do his best to deserve it.

"You gave it all up for me," said Crowley. He wound his fingers through the curls at Aziraphale's temple. "Last week you lived in a mansion filled with sculptures and paintings and tonight you had nothing but bread for your supper and you're not complaining at all."

"I love you," said Aziraphale. "And it took me far too long to realize that you're worth more to me than all of that."

Crowley shook his head. "You always loved me more than things," he said. "You were just afraid."

It was true, and Aziraphale admitted it. "I thought there was some earthly power I could have that would ensure that you were never hurt," he said. He gave his husband's leg a gentle nudge with his own toe. "I should have known you could defend yourself against all comers. Honestly, only you would think to turn your clothes into weapons against highwaymen."

"If I'd been naked," said Crowley, "I'd have pissed in the horse's eye."

"You never quit, do you?", said Aziraphale. 

"No," said Crowley. "And I'm not letting your murderous cousin keep your estate either. He doesn't get to have it."

"How?", said Aziraphale. 

"Dunno," said Crowley. "Going to sleep on it."

But neither of them could quite sleep. It was still early, and the summer sun was bright through the curtain. So they locked the door and made love. Aziraphale was very conscious of Crowley's wounded emotions, and so he let his husband take the lead entirely. As he might have predicted, Crowley didn't want to be touched at all. He took off Aziraphale's nightshirt and then sat on the floor at his feet, cross-legged, looking up at him as if he were a statue. Crowley's body was long enough that he didn't even need to go up on his knees at first; he just took Aziraphale into his mouth, and slowly sucked him to hardness. It took a long time, because Aziraphale was so very wrung out that his body didn't want to respond, but Crowley didn't seem to mind at all. He just sat there on the floor with his eyes closed and his mouth around a semi-hard prick, and just sighed and sucked. 

Aziraphale stood there and let his arse be kneaded and let himself be sucked and just watched in wonder. He didn't understand how Crowley could even want him at all. He felt so very unworthy. But Crowley felt him to be worthy and his mouth and his hands insisted that it was so and, eventually, Aziraphale's body yielded to him and gave him proof of his skill. And that was all the satisfaction Crowley seemed to want because, afterwards, he crawled into bed and lay against Aziraphale and closed his eyes.

***

The next two weeks were challenging for Aziraphale. Every morning, at a dreadfully early hour, Crowley left his side and went to work. Aziraphale was left to his own devices for the entire day. On the first day, he learned that hot baths were not nearly as relaxing when they only contained ten gallons of water and you had to carry that water up the stairs yourself. And then back down again afterwards. The family saw him struggling and he got a bit of help, but that proved to be humiliating because it transpired that a fourteen year old girl in the household could carry a half-full bucket in each hand, whereas Aziraphale’s fingers ached when the buckets were only a quarter full. Even with the help, it still took him over two hours to bathe and dress himself. When he was finally done and feeling reasonably clean at last, he had the horrifying realization that he was expected to empty his own chamber pot. 

Over the next few days, he passed most of his time in helping out around the house. He was terribly useless at most chores, and he mostly tried to be cheerful company for those who were actually effective at doing work. He felt himself to be an imposition, but he knew that if he allowed himself to be alone, he'd have another attack of nerves. As it was, whenever he wasn't actively distracting himself by badly sweeping up or carrying a half-full bucket of water with two hands, his heart started to beat a bit too fast. Nearly dying had had that effect on him. But it also made him very grateful to be alive. 

The household that Aziraphale found himself living in was a very busy one. Richard Chancy had seventeen grandchildren, and they all lived either in the tavern or in another house on the other side of the yard that was in back of the tavern. They weren’t demure or polite either. All of them were always thundering up and down the stairs and in and out of doors. The eldest grandchild was a twenty-one year old man named Henry who had a job in town but helped his grandfather with the books at night. The youngest grandchild was a fat baby named Lydia. In the afternoons, Richard Chancy liked to sit in a chair in the yard with Lydia on his knee as he watched the other children rolling hoops and playing ball. 

It was Chancy who found a way for Aziraphale to usefully contribute to the household. He obtained some Greek and Latin textbooks and had Aziraphale give lessons to the older children for three hours every afternoon. In addition to classics, Aziraphale found himself teaching manners, elocution, and history.

***

The London newspapers had a fine time with the “nest of perversion and infamy” that was found in the very heart of one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods. There were breathless descriptions of the explicit artwork and the sculptures. All of the staff, from the waiters to the bath attendants, either escaped or claimed to have been newly hired and ignorant. But, as for the fourteen wealthy men who were arrested there that day, though some of their names were published, they each had a very good reason for not having any idea what the building was all about, and so it didn’t look like the charges would stick. Crowley said that all the girls at the supper club talked of nothing else, and that, once he had told them about the ledger book, they were all the happier that they could enjoy the delicious scandal without feeling the least bit of guilt. 

To avoid hearing that gossip, among other reasons, Aziraphale preferred to avoid court in the first two weeks, and so, on the nights when court met, he spent the evenings with Paul Waxdall, who was also recovering from shock and didn't feel up to putting on his 'Duke Bottomly' personna. While the raucous ‘girls’ shrieked and sang in the dining room and parlour, the two of them just sat in Paul and Richard's bedroom and played cribbage and talked. Paul quietly credited Aziraphale with burning the terrible ledger book, and he thanked him. 

"I have six friends who are still in service," he said. “Some of them are highly placed in their households, and I'm very glad that any potential information about them has been destroyed."

Paul didn't care to talk any more about the ledger book or how he had come to be listed in it, and so, instead, they talked about Crowley's scheme to deny Michael the inheritance, which was a topic that always filled Paul Waxdall with glee. He expressed his glee by permitting the tiniest of smirks to grace his features when Aziraphale talked about the whole business. And it was a very strange and funny business, by any standard.

By a strange coincidence, Uncle Gabriel had died at eight PM on the very night of the fire at the townhouse. All of the servants at Empyrean Hall were in complete agreement about that fact and many of them were prepared to testify to it in court, if it came to that. The seamstress, in particular, was adamant, and Miss Device made a trip up to London to assure the estate's lawyers that the staff were unified in their opinion. And all the servants who were serving at the Fells' London townhouse testified that the terrible fire that had tragically killed their beloved master hadn't started until nine forty-five at night. Again, their testimony was all in perfect agreement. 

So, therefore, it was absolutely clear that Mr. Aziraphale Fell had been alive to inherit for nearly two hours before his untimely death, which had been witnessed by the housekeeper, who had heard his screams coming from the library before the flames had forced her to flee for her own life. All this meant that the estate had come to Azriaphale, however briefly. A second copy of his will and all the paperwork legitimizing Adam had been placed with the estate's lawyers, and therefore the succession was very clear. Adam Young owned Empyrean Hall and all its associated buildings as well as what remained of the London townhouse and the family's other holdings. The estate's lawyers would manage all the property, in trust, until Adam was of age. 

Lady and Michael Sandalphon both raised strenuous objections as to the timing of events on that fateful evening. The estate’s lawyers then revealed that the housekeeper was prepared to testify that she had seen Michael tie his cousin to a chair and leave him to die in a fire. The housekeeper also recalled that Michael had built a pyre of wooden objects on the hearth and had made no efforts at all to fight the fire once it started. When the spectre of charges of arson and murder was raised, Michael backed down. The lawyers didn't even need to mention to him that, on the night of the fire, the neighbours had witnessed a crazed man standing in front of the house claiming that the house had been burned for the insurance money. Which was good, because that meant that the fire insurance money would be paid out, and could be used to settle the estate's debts.

"But you met with one of the lawyers," asked Paul Waxdall. “Didn’t you?” 

"Oh no," said Aziraphale. "That was my ghost who met with him. My ghost was there to see that my wishes were carried out as I would have wanted."

"What about what Michael saw in the book?"

"There's no proof any such book ever existed," said Aziraphale. "And there's no living witness to any of what happened in Tadfield."

"The valet who died trying to save the silver," said the former butler. His face grew hard. "Poor, stupid fool."

Aziraphale did his best to cheer Waxdall up with glad tidings. "Michael is said to have gone mad," he said. "He goes on and on with ludicrous accusations against the memory of his poor dead cousin, and that makes everyone question his judgement. People in the London neighbourhood are saying the most awful things about him. They seem to think he is responsible for my death and for endangering all of their houses, and they aren't sympathetic to him at all. He’s been completely cast out of polite society.”


	33. The Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And it came to pass that all that had seemed wrong was now right and those who deserved to were certain to live a long and happy life. Ever After." Sondheim, Into the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E for happy Ending.

The hardest part, for Crowley, was to explain to Aziraphale why he didn't want to talk about the ledger book at all. Aziraphale was so upset by it that he wouldn't leave the topic alone. 

"But they hurt you!", Aziraphale insisted.

And Crowley tried to explain: "It wasn't all one thing, angel. 'S complicated." He needed to massage his temples just to get through the sentences. "Look. Some of it was good. There was a man who used to come every summer and ask me to take him. He wanted his chimney swept out twice a week, and he--"

"That's disgusting.”

"Figure of speech, angel," said Crowley. "He was very clean. And he was also very attentive to my needs and very kind. He's the reason I knew how to satisfy you so well, and I doubt he wrote anything about it in that stupid book. The book isn't me. It's not my life, and I don't want to hear about it anymore. If you need to talk about it, you need to find someone else to talk with, because I'm done with the subject." 

***

"You can't talk to her on the subject of her past," said the little man in the frock.

He was standing in the door of Aziraphale's bedroom. It was court night, and Duke Bottomly had decided to join the festivities again, so Aziraphale was alone in his room. He was planning on spending the evening organizing all of the clothes and personal items that Miss Device had smuggled out of Empyrean Hall for him. But his progress was being stopped by an impetuous little man who was wearing a great big feather covered bonnet. The ridiculous bonnet was wrapped around his cheeks and was tied with a ribbon at his chin. His pretty blue dress was the height of middle class fashion, with puffed sleeves and flounces around the bottom of the skirt. 

"What?", said Aziraphale. 

"It upsets her," said the befrocked man. "It's taken me over ten years to help her get past it, and now she's in danger of going back to the way she was. You’re hurting her and you need to stop."

"Who are you?", said Aziraphale.

"I'm Lady Windward, I'm her--"

"Lover." 

"Friend," said Windward. "Her friend.” He took a step toward Aziraphale. “I won’t let you drag her back into her past,” he said. “I don’t care what title you held or what you did for her son, it still doesn’t give you the right to hurt her.”

Aziraphale looked at the trembling little man in the frock. The man’s eyes were hard; his hands were balled into fists. 

“You are so young and ignorant,” said Windward. “And you think you’re better than us. She has worked so hard to be happy and you won’t even come see her at court. Do you even think of how that makes her feel? Of course not.” He practically spat out the next words: “I was a fool for not giving her a ring. But you don’t deserve her at all. She’s too good for you.”

Aziraphale was caught flat. Some of the things this older man was saying were the very things that Aziraphale had thought himself, a hundred times over, during the last twenty days. And Windward was the very person who had managed to touch Crowley in ways that Aziraphale never had, in ways that Aziraphale still wasn’t quite permitted to. It galled him and terrified him.

But Aziraphale had made courage his daily habit starting from the very moment that he faced his own physical destruction at the hands of his cousin. In the days after his near death experience, Aziraphale had made a conscious choice to obliterate himself from his old life. There was no going back. Which meant that he needed to deal with the challenge that he was being faced with. 

Aziraphale turned his back on his wardrobe of fine silk and linen, and he met the light brown eyes of the one who had buggered his Crowley. And, because he was done with living a life of lies, he was completely honest:

“I don’t deserve him,” said Aziraphale. “But he loves me and he wants me, and my presence in his life brings him happiness. Anthony Crowley is the most remarkable and courageous person that I have ever known; he deserves the very sun and stars. All I have left to give him is myself. But he will have all of me for as long as he wants me.”

The little man in the dress deflated a bit. He never looked away from Aziraphale’s eyes, but he started blinking, very fast. He cursed under his breath. He bit his lip. When he spoke again, his voice was significantly less strident:

“Just because she was your first doesn’t mean she’s obligated to take care of you for the rest of her life,” he said. 

“I know,” replied Aziraphale. “I intend to find paying work in London.”

The older man narrowed his eyes. “Have you been avoiding court because you were afraid of me?" 

Aziraphale frowned. He didn't like the question. So he answered a different one. "I don't enjoy having relations in public," he said. 

“I think,” said Windward, “That we can both agree that what each of us want and enjoy isn’t the most important thing here. She is.”

Aziraphale nodded. His only comfort was that Windward looked just as unhappy as he himself felt. 

Windward took a deep breath. "I don't like giving advice unasked,” he said. “Because it always goes unheeded. But I care very deeply about Constance. She wants you at court. She needs you to stop making her be the person she was in the past and come and meet the person she has become." 

Windward stood in the doorway for a last minute, staring at Aziraphale. And then he left.

Aziraphale stood in his room, frowning, until his mind ran out of excuses, and then he went over to his extensive wardrobe and started pulling clothes out. Crowley was wearing green, and so it had to be the green waistcoat. Everything else needed to match that. He had an appropriately old fashioned pair of breeches such as he might wear to court. He had jade cufflinks, and they'd be perfect. He took off his shirt so that he could shave. When he was done, he put pomade through his hair and got the curls just right, even though they'd only degrade into fluffy clouds in an hour. Then he dressed himself and walked downstairs and into the dining room where Duke Bottomly and a bunch of men in riotously colorful tailcoats and decades old military uniforms all stopped their conversation to stare at him. Their jaws were wide open; they looked like children. He bowed to them, and they all pushed their benches out and bowed back. 

"Good evening, your grace," said Aziraphale to Bottomly. "Would you do me the honour of presenting me to the queen tonight?" 

"Absolutely," said the duke. And he motioned for Aziraphale to confer with him. 

Every man that had been at the table walked, with exaggerated care, toward the door that led to the parlour, and they all slipped through, hissing and whispering at each other in an English-adjacent language that Aziraphale could not yet understand. 

"How do you want to do this?", said the duke. 

***

Constance was standing in a dark corner with Miss Crier and Lady Jezebel. They were fanning themselves and giggling as they watched Miss Alice sucking one girl while another did a little backdoor work for her. Alice's concentration was failing under the onslaught of amorous attention to her anus, and Constance and her girlfriends were teasing her mercilessly. Alice was a braggart and they were thoroughly enjoying taking the piss out of her. 

The parlour door opened, and a bunch of the men came in, which was a normal thing at this time of the evening, but the men were whispering and the whispers spread around the room. Constance could only make out a few of the words over the sound of Alice's grunts:

"He really is one!"

"Don't act like a fool."

"You're the one who's embarrassing!"

"Of course he’s real, you silly girl!"

"What are we supposed to do?"

One of the younger girls came running over to their corner. "Constance!" she said. But she didn't have time to say anything else, because the door of the parlour opened, and Duke Bottomly came in. He strode across the room, whispered something in the Queen Mother's ear and then took the center of the room and stood there until everyone in the room, except Alice, fell silent.

"Ahem," said the duke. "Your Majesty. The Earl of Ambrosden.” 

And then there he was, gliding through the door, breathtaking in his fitted tailcoat and fawn colored breeches. His white silk stockings showed his full calves and well turned ankles to advantage. His little black shoes had diamond buckles. The points of his pure white collar were starched; his white silk cravat was tied in a fashionable court style. The white locks of his hair practically glowed in the candle light. He didn't search the room for Constance at all, but his affection was clear to anyone who had eyes. He had dressed to match Constance's fine green dress: a green silk waistcoat and matching jade cufflinks peeked out from under his dark blue tailcoat.

***

Aziraphale ignored the furiously whispering room, and kept his eyes fixed on the Queen Mother; he covered the six yards between the door and her throne with slow even steps. When he was two yards away, he bowed low. She gestured for him to approach and he genuflected at her feet. She offered her hand and he kissed her ring. 

A smattering of spontaneous applause broke out, but the duke held up his hand for silence, and, other than a little bit of a squeaking sound from some furniture, and Alice’s grunts of pleasure, he got it.

"Welcome, your lordship," said the Queen Mother. "We've heard a great deal about your deeds."

"Your Majesty," replied Aziraphale. And there was no trace of irony or jocularity, just perfect courtly manners. 

"We wish to bestow a new title upon you," she said. "Lord Justice."

"I hereby surrender all of my other titles to the crown," replied Aziraphale. 

Constance’s corner of the room was nearly behind the throne, so she couldn't see the Queen Mother's face to know how she reacted to the news, but she did hear a loud gasp from the entire crowd that covered half of what she was saying. 

" . . . Lord Justice," said the Queen Mother. 

"With your majesty's permission," Aziraphale said, "I would like to court Lady Constance."

The queen's response was completely drowned out by applause and hooting. Lady Jezebel started squeezing Constance’s hand so hard that it hurt and she started screaming in her ear. On the other side of the room, Lady Windward offered an enigmatic smile and mouthed some words, no doubt something wise and encouraging, but Constance couldn’t make them out because, a moment later, a handsome courtier locked eyes with her and crossed the room toward her. 

***

After he spoke with the queen, Aziraphale stood up and turned in a slow circle, taking in a roomful of motley characters wearing flamboyant men’s costumes and colorful dresses. He let his eyes slide past a naked man in a wig who was being buggered on a chaise, and then he found the one he was looking for. 

The Lady Constance was a vision. She was one of the tallest people in the room, and her elegant emerald green gown left her white shoulders bare and framed a lovely necklace that might have been pearl. A gossamer stole hung from her thin muscular arms. Most of her russet hair was pulled back in an elegant chignon, but a few spirals of red curls had been allowed to frame her face. In the candlelight, her heavily made up face showed no hint of any scar. It was pale and smooth, with high rouged cheekbones and bright red lips that split open in joy and confusion as Aziraphale approached her. 

On either side of her, Constance's girlfriends grasped her hands. 

The duke, suddenly and quietly standing by Aziraphale's side, made the introductions, and Aziraphale, as Lord Justice, bowed to Lady Constance and to each of her companions. 

Constance sank into a low curtsy and looked up at him with hazel eyes that were wet with emotion. He offered her his arm, and she blinked very hard before slipping her hand into the crook of it. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but seemed so choked with emotion that she couldn’t find the words. Lord Justice waited patiently for her to find them. 

"OH FUCK!" cried the one being buggered. And Lady Jezebel yelled:

"Shut up, Alice!"

Then the rest of the company burst into laughter and applause as Lord Justice led Lady Constance to a quiet corner of the room so that they could say all the words that needed to be said. 

***

“There are some things that I need to say,” said Windward. It was a Wednesday afternoon in the seventh week of Aziraphale’s new life. The Queen Mother’s grandchildren had just picked up their books and slates and left the dining room that would, in a little over three hours, host a feast for thirty men in dresses and outrageous costumes. For the past month, Windward hadn’t been among those men. But today he had arrived very early. He was wearing the costume of a clerk and he was holding a flask and two mugs in his hands. 

Aziraphale sat down and gestured at the table, and Windward sat on a bench next to him and poured some of the contents of the flask into each of the mugs. He passed one to Aziraphale. It proved to be rum, of a reasonably good quality.

“I blame myself,” said Windward. “I was overconfident. It would have been easier if I could at least tell myself that I played my cards to the best of my ability.”

Aziraphale nodded. There wasn’t much to say. 

“I don’t want you to think that I didn’t know what she was worth. I always did. But I have a family and I could never leave them, not even for her.” Windward raised his mug. “Still. Should have gotten her a watch with an inscription.”

They both drank, and then Windward spoke again:

“Of course you had the better hand,” he said. “You were the first girl she ever loved; you had her son. And you’re young and unencumbered.”

Aziraphale frowned. He was really uncomfortable about the idea that he had used Adam to keep a hold on Crowley’s affections. He certainly had never had any conscious desire to do it, but being unaware of one’s actions didn’t exempt one from responsibility.

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “I’m not young anymore.”

“Of course you are,” said Windward. He took another swallow from his mug. “I’m old enough to be your father.”

“I’m thirty-three.”

“Hmph,” said Windward. “You don’t look it. I’d have put you at my son’s age. Constance is right. You have a face like an angel. You’re uncommonly beautiful.” 

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. He took another drink, and then Windward held out his flask and topped them both up. 

“It’s not your looks that mattered most in the end,” said Windward, as he drank. ”It was that you took such good care of her son. She never wanted to admit it, but she was very appreciative. She loves her son so very deeply.” 

Aziraphale decided that this was as good an opportunity as any to change the subject to something happier, so he said: "Adam really is an extraordinary boy."

But Windward didn’t take the bait. He merely looked down at the table and shook his head slowly. “You know,” he said. “If she had raised Adam here in this house, she’d have been all mine.” He looked up and gave Aziraphale a sort of sad half-smile. “At least for two nights a week. And the three weeks every summer when my wife takes our children to visit her relatives.”

Aziraphale looked at his older rival and, for the first time, he felt compassion. He himself had left his old life behind because he wanted to live a life without regrets or lies. But such a life was a luxury, a luxury afforded to him because he had started out with so many advantages. Some of those advantages were with him still, and they extended beyond merely having a full wardrobe and a few finely crafted personal toys. What he had was choices. And Windward, though he was educated and comfortably middle class, had far fewer choices and far more constraints. 

“Constance still cares for you,” said Aziraphale. “She never stops loving anyone, ever.”

“I know,” said Windward. “I feel the same. That’s what we need to have a conversation about.”

***

There were a lot of important conversations to be had over the next months. The estate had been deeded to Adam Young, but the executors agreed with Aziraphale's ghost that some of Adam's relatives on his late father's side should receive small allowances from the estate, and that some others, who were elderly, should continue to live in their little houses on the estate. All the good riding horses were sold, though the old ponies and a few of the semi-retired horses, such as Ganymede, were kept on. Most of the cleared land was rented out to farmers, with the idea that the lawns could be restored if Adam wished, but that the rental money would help to pay for the skeleton staff that was still needed to keep the big house in repair. This would allow the bulk of the estate’s income to accumulate, pending Adam’s majority.

Aziraphale handled most of the details, through the one lawyer who had been permitted to know that he was alive. But Crowley needed to weigh in on certain important matters, such as the selection of Adam's tutors, the size of the allowance to the Young family, and, of course, Bentley. She had been sent to Empyrean Hall, along with four pages of detailed instructions for her care, which Crowley had forced Aziraphale to cross out and rewrite three times before he was satisfied. And then, not two weeks after her arrival, a great storm had come up and knocked down an ash tree across a fence and she'd escaped, leading five geldings out of their paddock. Ganymede had been found a hundred yards away, placidly munching on a tuft of grass, and none of the other geldings made it off the estate, but a two day search was required before Bentley was found at a stud farm twenty-five miles away. 

"She's still causing no end of trouble for them," said Aziraphale. He was reading through the end-of-September dispatch from Empyrean Hall. "She got out again last week and trod through Great-Aunt Patience's cottage garden. The old woman was having apoplectic fits when the groom arrived to catch her."

"Can't blame Bentley for being enthusiastic about country life," said Crowley. "She's like we were when we first got to London, wants to try everything."

"Also apparently wants to get fucked by everyone," said Aziraphale. "The stableman at the stud wants to charge the estate. She caused a fight among the stallions and he thinks she mated with more than one of them."

"Put that letter away,” said Crowley. “You need to finish getting dressed.” He was peering into a glass, applying heavy makeup to his face. "Our carriages will be here in an hour, and, unlike at Empyrean Hall, they aren't going to wait for you. There’s fifteen of us going to this ball, and we won't let you make us late."

Aziraphale slipped his arms around his lady's waist and kissed her on the back of the neck, careful not to disturb any of the feathers and jewels in her elaborate coiffure. "You won't leave without me," he said. "I've got your ticket."

Going to a public ball with the Queen Mother and her court was entirely different from any other ball experience that Aziraphale had ever had. Their carriages were considerably more crowded, for one thing. Fifteen people in two hired carriages meant that those inside the carriages were all practically sitting on each other's laps. Some of the younger men who were dressing as men for the evening had to sit with the drivers or on the backs of the carriages like servants. Lord Justice and Lady Constance shared a packed carriage with the Queen Mother, Duke Bottomly, Lady Jezebel, and Lord Nifty. Lady Windward rode in the other carriage, to make things simpler for everyone. 

There were five hundred couples at the ball, of all possible sexes and combinations thereof, and the dancing spilled from the main ballroom into a little garden beyond. There were fairies, dandies, tough women, spinsters, and those whose sex couldn’t be determined by the casual observer. But sex didn’t matter. Moreover, there was no need to know anyone’s rank or income or family lineage or betrothal status. They were all just humans dancing quadrille and waltz and country dances in their most fabulous finery. 

As was usual at any ball, there were more people in dresses than in trousers, and so some of those in dresses had to partner each other. The music was as good as any Aziraphale had ever heard at any similar affair in his former life, but the company was far, far better. Everyone in the crowd was enjoying a once-in-a-year experience and the mood was defiant and joyous. The fashion choices of the middle class gender outlaws were more outrageous than those of even the wealthiest of gentlefolk, because the deviants made up in audacity what they lacked in wealth. Within the first hour, the dance floor was festooned with feathers, flowers, ribbons and faux pearls that had been danced off their owners' elaborate headdresses, hats and sashes. One man had constructed epaulettes out of fresh flowers all sewn together and, when his enthusiastic dancing caused one to fall and be trampled, he took off the other and tossed it to a shy youngster who had been staring at him from the side of the room. 

In his old life, Aziraphale used to stick to the sides of the room, chatting with the old women and only occasionally having a dance, but tonight Lord Justice let the old queens gossip behind their fans while he danced with, and courted, the most lovely woman in the room. The Lady Constance had a brand new satin ball gown for the occasion. It was a dusty rose color and every part of it, from the cuffs to the puffed sleeves to the skirt, was covered in flounces and ribbon. Constance had a real gold necklace, and, on it, a sixty-year-old gold ring with a flower made of pearl and diamond. She told all those who inquired that it had been given to her by her late husband, an earl. 

It was when they were walking in the gardens, seeking out a space in the hedges that wasn't already occupied by ardent lovers, that Lord Justice realized something very important. 

"Does that mean you are hoping to marry again?", said Lord Justice.

"If the right man proposes," answered Lady Constance, "Yes.”

The right man did propose, that very night.

***

The wedding was held in December. A sympathetic priest was found, and the dining room of the club was temporarily turned into a chapel, with the long trestle table disassembled and its benches turned into pews for the ceremony. The happy couple paid for a caterer and the room was decorated with paper flowers hung on ribbons from the ceiling joists. Windward dressed in male costume to walk Lady Constance down the aisle, and he cried as he kissed her cheek and gave her hand to the handsome lord that she was to marry. 

As for Aziraphale, he was utterly lost during the whole ceremony. He just looked into the eyes of his beloved and tried to repeat the words without stumbling over them too much. Constance really was the only woman he could ever love. She was challenging, witty, and impossibly independent, but also compassionate, ethical (in her own way), and courageous. Tonight, she wore heavy makeup because she didn’t want anyone to see her scars on her wedding night, but Aziraphale remembered the day that he had stood at the edge of a stable yard and fallen in love with a man whose scars had only made him more fascinating. 

Aziraphale hadn’t understood, fifteen years ago, how very many scars there were that he couldn’t see with his eyes, and how much they had shaped the person he loved. Before Windward’s intervention, he had been trying to find a way to help Crowley rediscover the self that had existed before all those scars had been made. As if a return to Eden-like innocence could bring happiness. But now he understood that the complicated person he loved, whether known as Crowley or Lady Constance, existed because of the scars, because of who they had to become in order to triumph over all of it. And so, with ambivalence borne of his hatred of the cruelty of those who had given Crowley those scars, Aziraphale, as Lord Justice, stood at the makeshift altar and resolved to love every single scar unconditionally, forever. 

They could have gone to their own room after the ceremony, but the traditional bed for weddings at the supper club was the double wide divan in the back corner of the parlour, and it was in solidarity with their friends that they let themselves be sent to the parlour to enjoy the traditional twenty minutes or so of privacy that was afforded to newlyweds. In deference to the newlyweds’ sensibilities, a little wooden screen had been placed in front of the divan to partly conceal it from the rest of the room. There was even a little washstand containing a basin, an ewer, and a small stack of the club’s least stained towels. 

They were quick about getting undressed and falling into each other’s arms on the divan, but when Crowley rolled onto his belly, Aziraphale hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether they had enough time.

“I intend to have my wedding night,” said Crowley. “Also, I borrowed your expensive toy. I know how shy you are. This way you can be in and out and done before they even come into the parlour.”

Six months of living with people who treated him like a person, like an adult man, had permitted Aziraphale to grow in unexpected ways. He hadn’t understood what the weight of his family’s constant humiliation had been until it was lifted, and he hadn’t understood the strength of his own stubborn pride until he no longer needed to constantly wield it in defense against his aunt and cousins. Right now, Crowley’s words were awakening that pride. 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “If we’re doing this, then we’re doing it right. I’m going to take my time taking you apart. I want them all to hear you scream my name.”

***

There weren’t a lot of good ways for a less-than-average height man to bugger a very tall one, but the best, the one Aziraphale had come to favour, was to lay his beloved on his side with his top leg bent, and to straddle his bottom leg and enter him that way. While his hips did their work, he could lie over Crowley’s side and kiss his chest or his back; if he stretched, and Crowley turned his head in just the right way, Aziraphale could also kiss his beloved on the lips. 

On the night of his wedding, Lord Justice took his time, as much as was possible. His nimble fingers removed the ivory toy, and then did the necessary work to ensure that his beloved was begging for his cock before he finally allowed himself to slide inside. Once they were underway, he did his very best to make it worth the wait. His lady did no small part of the work, rocking back to meet his thrusts and also to adjust the angle for her own pleasure. She had to take care of her own prick, because it took all of Lord Justice’s concentration to keep his pace slow and even, get the depth and angle exactly right, and not chase after his own climax. In all these months, they’d only done this particular act a handful of times and Justice still found the sucking clenching heat of his beloved to be overwhelming.

Lord Justice knew that this surely wasn’t the best fuck that the Lady Constance had ever had in the Queen Mother’s parlour, but he knew that he was doing well enough, because his lady gasped. “Yes!”, she whispered. “Oh God. The head. I feel it. Fuck. That’s the spot. Yes.”

It was a different kind of pleasure, to make love like this. Aziraphale couldn’t just ride his own sensations and lose himself completely in them. There was a delicate balance between keeping his own needs at bay and attending to his lover’s pleasure and he needed to pay attention. He had always enjoyed being buggered, and he always would. But there was power here, and a certain pride in knowing that his cock was driving the sensations that his lady was feeling. He wasn’t yet very skilled at fucking, but he was sensitive and attentive, and that was what his Constance needed most of all. 

They settled into a mutually acceptable rhythm. Aziraphale had his upper body draped over the side of his beloved and he was covering Crowley’s ribs and back with kisses. Crowley had one hand on his own prick, to keep control of the sensations so that he could regulate the intensity. At some point, they both lost themselves and forgot that they were even in the parlour. They got loud, and they filled the air with the same words that they had used fifteen years earlier: “Angel, God. My angel,” said Crowley. Aziraphale answered him with the usual endearments, curses, and blasphemies. Crowley turned his head and they kissed. Then, all at once, Aziraphale became overwhelmed. 

“Fuck!”, said Aziraphale. “Can’t last. In you or on you? Quick.”

“Inside,” said Crowley. “I’m yours, angel.” And Aziraphale cried out and buried himself in his beloved as he spent. 

Aziraphale heard the sounds of muted cheering from the other side of the wooden screen as his whited-out vision slowly started to return. He felt his lover shaking underneath him, stroking himself fast and hard. As he came back to himself, Aziraphale sucked kisses into Crowley’s ribs and teased his nipples. 

“Do you want my hand?”, said Aziraphale. But Crowley was already howling. 

From the room beyond, there was the sound of cheering, and then murmurs and laughter that rose and fell like waves. Crowley collapsed onto his belly. Aziraphale crawled up beside him and whispered into his ear:

“Was it alright?”

“Yes, angel,” said Crowley. He sighed and pushed his arse back until he found Aziraphale’s thighs, then he wriggled and nestled his arse into Aziraphale’s pelvis, right up against his softening prick. “Perfect,” he muttered, and he sighed again. 

Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his beloved and pulled him close, resting his nose on Crowley’s back and inhaling the scent of him. They lay there for a few minutes, just breathing and listening to the sound of laughter from the other side of the screen. Then Crowley rolled over onto his belly and started to grope around on the divan with his hand. 

“Whereza towel, angel?”, he said. 

***

There was no need for a blanket, afterwards. The room beyond the wooden screen was already full of enough people and candles that nudity was perfectly comfortable. Once they’d cleaned up, the newlyweds just lay on a towel on the divan, half dozing, with Crowley resting his head on Aziraphale’s chest. And then: 

“Knock, knock,” said a voice. 

“Happy wedding!”, said another voice. 

Suddenly there was a swarm of people pouring toward them. The screen was moved away. There was light and there were colorful dresses and uniforms and ridiculous wigs on all sides. The members of the supper club started leaning on and sitting on the divan. The poor old piece of furniture groaned under all the weight. There was a clinking sound, and a mug was pressed into Aziraphale’s hands. 

“We’ve been saving this wine for your wedding,” said the Queen Mother. She had settled herself on the divan right at Aziraphale’s feet with a mug in her hand. 

Aziraphale knew exactly where the wine had come from. Three nights after the fire, some friends of the Queen Mother, armed with a map and pick-axes and shovels, had visited the burned out wreckage of the Fell townhouse and excavated the wine cellar. They had liberated twelve hundred bottles, one hundred of which had found their way into the Queen Mother’s own cellar. 

Right now, Duke Bottomly was very expertly dividing four bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape among about forty mugs that were arrayed on a bench that had been brought into the parlour. Two of the wedding guests were kneeling on the floor and steadying the bench with their hands, lest the precious drink be spilled; two others were ferrying mugs to all those who had gathered around the wedding bed to congratulate the happy couple.

Windward was there, too. He was standing next to Crowley’s side of the divan, wearing his little formal tailcoat, and looking down at the well-satiated bride with a half smile and damp eyes.

“Sit,” said Crowley, and he reached up to pull on Windward’s hands. Windward didn’t move. He looked to Aziraphale for permission. 

Aziraphale nodded, and Windward sat next to Crowley on the divan. He bent over, pressed his forehead against Crowley’s, and whispered something that Aziraphale couldn’t quite hear, because everyone else in the room was demanding his attention. 

Aziraphale was naked, in a molly house. In his hand was an earthenware mug containing a dollop of wine, not even a tenth of what he used to consume in the course of an ordinary supper in his old life. He was surrounded by over three dozen men, at least a quarter of whom had known his wedded spouse in one way or another, and one of them, a little fellow in a neat black tailcoat, was right now covering Crowley’s brow with kisses and whispering into his ear. 

Duke Bottomly finished filling the last of the mugs, and then he came over and stood next to his queen. She snaked an arm around his waist and leaned into him as she sat at Aziraphale’s feet on the divan. 

“Let’s hear a toast from the happy couple,” said the Queen Mother, and she raised her mug. 

Aziraphale raised his own drink and caught Crowley’s eye. Crowley sat up on one elbow and accepted a mug from someone. He waited for Windward to receive a mug before he lifted his own high and offered a dazzling smile to his new husband.

“To love,” said Crowley.

“To love,” said Aziraphale. “All of it.”

***

Five years later---

December, 1832, London

A brown-haired librarian known to his employer as ‘Ezra Stone’ was nearing the end of his work day on a December afternoon. He was anxious to get home and get dressed for his evening out with his husband. They were attending one of the public Christmas Lectures at the Royal Society, and Crowley was completely ecstatic because Michael Faraday, the common-born man who had invented the electric motor, was going to be giving this year’s lecture. 

Aziraphale had gotten his job in one of London’s many private libraries through a network of librarians who were also ‘that way’. He’d been a bit afraid to take the job, fearing that he’d be recognized by people he used to know. But his middle class clothes, combined with his dyed hair and his spectacles, had proved to be a more than sufficient disguise. Few of the noblemen who came to this library even bothered to look up from their books to see who it was that was dusting the shelves and organizing the catalouge. 

But, on this particular afternoon, a man came in from the already dark streets to ask for the location of Plato’s _Symposium_. He happened to look into the face of ‘Ezra Stone’, then he shook his head and looked again.

The man was John Addecott, and he was the very man who had advocated forcing oneself on servants as a means of learning the art of buttock stirring. Aziraphale found himself having to work very hard to keep his self-control. 

“Is something the matter, sir?”, said Aziraphale. 

“I’m sorry,” said Addecott, “Your face. You reminded me of someone I used to know.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. 

“He died in a terrible fire, and I never got to attend his funeral.”

“Why was that, sir?”

Addecott’s face went dark and he lowered his face and shook his head. “Things,” he said. “Was a busy time in my life. Couldn’t get away to attend.” He directed a pained smile at the floor. “He was a good man, my friend. Better than I ever was.” He glanced up, unseeing, and gave Aziraphale a little nod. “But ‘Whom the gods love die young’,” he said. “ ‘Best go first.’ “ 

Then Addecott turned away and took himself into the stacks.

***

August 1838

Somewhere in the South Downs

“All I’m saying,” said Crowley, as he adjusted the orientation of his telescope, “Is that if the Tories had just passed the Reform Bill in the first place, they wouldn’t have had all the riots. Was their choice. You ignore the will of the people at your peril.” 

“I suppose,” said Aziraphale, “If the public ever accepted men like us, I’d have to deal with you running for a seat in the House of Commons. So it’s only our shared proclivities that save me from the terrible fate of being a politician’s wife.”

“I’ve done my bit for shaking up Parliament, by siring Adam,” said Crowley. “I’m sure he’ll cause plenty of trouble.”

Adam Young was nearly twenty-two years old and had taken his title and full possession of Empyrean Hall. He was, in some ways, a thorn in the side of the local gentry, as he refused to recognize the various class distinctions among them, and was irritatingly casual to them, as well as overly friendly with the farmers who worked his land. He liked to tear through the countryside on a fast black mare named Storm who had been born at his estate when he was twelve years old. Storm had no pedigree whatsoever. Her mother had been a retired cab horse from London and her sire was unknown. Adam took great delight in defeating local gentlemen in steeplechase and then reminding them of Storm’s lack of pedigree as well as the fact that his own mother had been a London commoner. 

Aziraphale knew all this because he could read between the lines of Adam’s letters, which had been a regular part of his life for the last ten years. Adam had eventually forgiven Aziraphale for elevating him, especially since he hadn’t been required to leave his family for school. At age fourteen he had tried to attend Eton for a year and got himself expelled for impertinence and for inciting disrespectful and disruptive behavior among his classmates. Aziraphale had suggested that making the grand tour of Europe with his tutors would be the natural alternative to school, and so Adam had done that, with his siblings in tow. He was actually soon to be leaving on a tour of Arabia, Persia, and Egypt and he planned to stop by in the next few days to see the house he had bought for Aziraphale and Crowley before he boarded his ship in Portsmouth. 

Aziraphale had been cleaning the house all day in anticipation of his young guest’s arrival, but Crowley had spent his day cleaning and adjusting the lenses on his new telescope. It had been a gift from Adam, and Crowley had hopes of becoming a real astronomer. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he could do it, considering that he still, after all these years, couldn’t quite read comfortably. The mystery of why Crowley couldn’t become fluent was absolutely impenetrable. It seemed to be a part of him, and no amount of effort or tutoring could change it. 

“ ‘S my nature,” Crowley always said. “Just like you can’t function with women, I can’t function with the written word. It’s inborn. And I’m not going to waste my life fighting nature.” But fighting against his ordained social station was something he was perfectly prepared to do. Commoner scientists rarely succeeded, but Crowley had hired a boy to read for him, and he had already filled ten pages of his notebook with sketches of the stars and planets. 

Crowley was forty-eight years old and, when he was excited about something, he still had the energy of a youth. He never quit or felt himself a failure. Being forced from his first career as a servant had led him to reinvent himself as a stableman. His failed business with the gig that was driven from the rear, he attributed to being “Ahead of my time.” And now he was training horses by day and spending his evenings staring up at the night sky, looking for something new that no one else had ever noticed. 

Crowley looked up from his telescope and smiled at Aziraphale. “Sorry, angel,” he said. “It’s a dark sky night, you know. Can’t be wasting a minute of it.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. “What if I bring your supper to you?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Can’t chance getting grease on the knobs and lenses,” he said.

“I could feed it to you,” said Aziraphale. “If you can bear to step away from your telescope for a minute. And then I can help you with note-taking, if you like.”

Crowley sighed. “You are an angel,” he said. “Everything worthwhile I’ve ever done in my life, has been for you. I think I can do anything as long as you’re by my side.” He held out an arm and pulled Aziraphale tightly against him. 

“Now, then,” said Aziraphale. “What stars am I looking at now?”

“That there,” said Crowley, “That’s the constellation Leo, and the bright star there is Regulus, it’s a binary star-- WOT!”

And Aziraphale saw it too. A falling star just flared across the sky right in front of them. 

“What’s the exact time, Aziraphale?”

“Ten-o-five pm,” said Aziraphale. “Is that another one?”

“Notebook!” said Crowley. “And the lantern with the red glass. Quick! We’ll have supper after the shooting stars stop!”

But the shooting stars didn’t stop. By midnight, they were positively raining down. Aziraphale had never seen anything like it in his life. He couldn’t even count them anymore, and, as Crowley frantically sketched, Aziraphale paused in his enumeration of them to just look up in wonder. 

“When I was a boy,” Aziraphale said, “I used to think that falling stars were angels being cast out of Heaven.”

“Can’t be,” said Crowley. “Heaven is here.”

**Fin**

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who commented. Many of your comments led to new material being written or to corrections being made. You made the story better and you are a part of it.
> 
> If you go back and re-read, you might notice that I've done a second round of editing. I tried to remove extraneous spaces (I tend to double space between sentences, which is really annoying to dyslexics, as my dyslexic partner always tells me.) I tried to correct any inconsistencies in character ages and dates. I fixed factual errors that readers with specialized knowledge happened to catch. (Because if a Regency undergarment expert happens to read my fic, I darned well want to take their advice.) 
> 
> Thank you all again! This has been such a wonderful and educational project. I couldn't have done it without the support of this wonderful GO fandom.


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